'l  "Mjghe/s 


The 

Inevitable 


HOW — WILL   YOU    HAVE — YOL'R   TEA?" 


Page  123 


Inevitable 


Philip  Verrill  Mighels 


With  a  Frontispiece  by  John  Wolcott  Adams 


Philadelphia     Mdccccii 
J.   B.   Lippincott   Company 


COPYRIGHT,    1902 
BY    PHILIP    VERRILL    MIGHELS 

Published  October,  1901 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
J.  B,  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.S.A. 


Contents 


I 

ROGER 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    How  Two  MAY  MEET 9 

II.    AN  UNDERLYING  MOTIF 16 

III.  To  RIGHT  A  WRONG 22 

IV.  AN  INQUISITION 30 

V.    IN  THE  SHADOWS 38 

VI.     ADJUSTING  TERESA 44 

VII.    A  CONTACT  WITH  THE  WORLD 49 

II 

GENEVRA 

I.    A  SOCIAL  AMBITION 63 

II.    THE  BLACK  LION 69 

III.  A  THEME  FOR  A  COMPOSITION 78 

IV.  A  FRIEND  COMES  HOME 86 

V.  A  DAY  OF  LETTERS 94 

VI.    THE  OPENING  OF  VISTAS 99 

VII.     A  WIDENING  BREACH 107 

VIII.     A  FIRST  VIOLIN 115 

IX.    THE  DARK  HOURS 119 

X.    A  MAN'S  TEMPTATION 126 

XL    ROGER'S  RECITAL 132 

XII.    THE  CLIMAX 139 

XIII.  AFTER  TWENTY-FOUR  YEARS 149 

XIV.  POSTPONING  THE  JUDGMENT 162 

XV.    ROGER'S  HOUR 167 

XVI.     GENEVRA'S  THEME 171 

XVII.    THE  CHEER  OF  FELLOWSHIP 178 

XVIII.    THE  FARCE  COMMENCES 187 


2229150 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  A  PARTIAL  INTOXICATION 195 

XX.  COLOSSUS  NO  LONGER  A  JOKE 203 

XXI.  THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN 210 

XXII.  FOUND 219 

XXIII.  ROGER'S  ADVOCATE 225 

XXIV.  THEIR  DAY  OF  SUMMER 232 

III 

SUNSHINE 

I.  AN  AFTERMATH 245 

II.  A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 253 

III.  MR.  CHICHESTER  ACQUIESCES 266 

IV.  MRS.  CHICHESTER  ENLIGHTENED 272 

V.  ROGER'S  NEWS 280 

VI.  A  PILGRIM 288 

VII.  A  STORY  COMPLETED 298 

VIII.  A  CONCEPTION  OF  DUTY .  302 

IX.  THE  UNESCAPABLE 308 

X.  THE  PROBLEM  OF  A  RACE 313 

XI.  A  BELATED  DISCOVERY 318 

XII.  A  LONG  SEARCH 321 

XIII.  THE  REWARD  OF  A  SEARCH 327 

XIV.  CAUSE  AND  EFFECT  COME  FACE  TO  FACE 338 

XV.  NEWS  FROM  ENGLAND 343 

XVI.  THE  RIGHT  OF  LOVE 348 

XVII.  THE  INEVITABLE 359 


I 

ROGER 


The 

Inevitable 


HOW  TWO   MAY   MEET 

IT  was  out  in  nature's  lap  of  greenery  that  a  snake 
became  the  go-between  of  fate.  All  Missouri  could 
not  have  shown  a  scene  more  fair.  The  level  meadow 
was  a  firmament  for  flowers,  in  which  the  winding 
brook  made  a  willowy  way.  Southward  and  west- 
ward the  woods  were  thick,  silent,  and  fragrant.  Sun- 
shine and  clouds  hung  in  the  sky  together.  Every- 
where the  bees  and  locusts  hummed  of  summer.  The 
warm  breeze  fanned  slowly  by,  over  grass  and  blos- 
soms, with  wanton  June  indolence.  The  calm,  the 
odor  of  moist  new  grass,  the  balminess,  made  the  day 
a  perfect  thing. 

The  sleepy  little  town  was  a  mile  away.  There- 
fore it  appeared  as  if  Genevra  had  all  that  theatre  of 
beauty  to  herself.  She  was  only  a  slip  of  a  girl,  an 
interesting,  freckled  child,  with  hair  the  color  of  nug- 
get gold.  Forbidden  to  wade  in  the  brook,  she  was 
nevertheless  out  in  the  centre  of  the  stream,  boldly 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone,  her  dress  held  high 

9 


THE    INEVITABLE 


enough  above  her  dainty  boots  to  reveal  something 
more  than  merely  her  slender,  symmetrical  ankles. 

Thus  she  was  when  Roger  came  trudging  in  boyish 
haste  along  the  path  that  led  by  the  creek  to  the  woods 
beyond.  He  halted  at  once  when  he  suddenly  found 
himself  confronted  by  the  sight  of  a  bare-headed, 
gray-eyed  girl,  looking  at  him  steadily  and  frankly. 

She  brushed  a  wisp  of  hair  from  her  cheek  as  she 
dropped  her  skirt.  Her  face  was  warmly  sun-colored ; 
her  lips  were  red  and  full.  In  her  long-lashed,  slum- 
brous eyes  lurked  a  light  of  interest.  She  was  not 
absolutely  a  pretty  child,  yet  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
— to  Roger. 

A  greater  contrast  than  the  boy  presented  to  her 
Saxon  type  would  have  been  difficult  to  find.  He  was 
dark — as  dark  as  an  Indian  or  a  Cuban.  His  hair  was 
glossy  black.  In  his  eyes,  which  were  deep  liquid 
brown,  an  expression  slightly  wistful,  alternating  with 
dancing  lights,  lent  his  countenance  a  singular  interest. 
His  nose  was  straight  and  delicately  cut.  His  chin  was 
strong.  Tall  as  'he  was  for  a  lad  of  sixteen  years,  he 
appeared  even  taller,  so  Indianesque  was  his  carriage. 

Genevra  thought  him  the  son  of  some  noble  red  man. 
She  hoped  he  would  speak ;  she  almost  smiled  with  her 
slumbrous  eyes,  and  then  she  became  aware  that  so  to 
comport  herself  with  a  stranger  would  not  be  precisely 
conventional.  Her  gaze  therefore  fell,  resting  on  some 

10 


HOW    TWO    MAY    MEET 


coils  of  cord  he  was  holding  in  his  hand,  which  she 
vaguely  conjectured  argued  fashing. 

She  liked  to  look  upon  him;  he  was  handsome;  his 
face  seemed  so  smooth,  firm,  and  bronze-like  in  its 
modelling.  She  was  sure  he  was  "  nice,"  but — she 
turned  and  began  a  retreat  back  up  the  brook,  towards 
the  bend  where  she  had  left  her  governess  reading. 

Roger  had  been  rendered  timid  of  contact  with  his 
kind.  He  liked  this  interesting  girl,  who  had  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes  till  his  breath  almost  forgot  to 
come,  but  he  was  of  far  too  reserved  a  nature  to  address 
her,  unencouraged.  That  she  was  not  an  ordinary  girl 
he  felt  certain,  immediately.  Reluctantly  he  started 
along  about  his  own  affairs.  However,  he  could  not 
forego  turning  'his  head  as  he  went,  for  his  eyes  re- 
fused readily  to  deliver  up  the  treasure  which  they 
had  conceived  the  picture  to  contain. 

He  saw  Genevra  glance  twice  in  his  direction  as  he 
walked  on  towards  the  near-by  woods.  Still  gazing 
backward,  he  was  presently  tripped  by  a  root  and  down 
he  went  suddenly,  sprawling. 

At  this  instant  Genevra  screamed  shrilly  in  terror. 
Roger  scrambled  actively  to  his  feet,  and,  while  she 
continued  to  sound  her  cries,  ran  back  to  where  she 
stood  apparently  rigid  with  fear. 

She  had  started  to  step  ashore  from  her  place  in  the 
creek.  A  black-snake,  of  a  size  and  aggressiveness 


THE    INEVITABLE 


unusual  had  darted  from  the  grass,  resenting  her  intru- 
sion. The  reptile,  undaunted  by  the  babble  of  water, 
which  had  for  a  moment  seemed  a  barrier  between  it 
and  the  girl,  was  coming  at  her  savagely  when  Roger 
arrived. 

The  boy  hated  snakes  above  anything  he  knew. 
Nevertheless,  he  sprang  swiftly  into  the  water  and 
threw  himself  forward  on  the  serpent  at  the  very  feet 
of  the  frightened  girl.  He  clutched  the  black  body  in 
his  hands,  feeling  it  creep  in  his  grip  as  he  did  so.  In 
a  frenzy  he  beat  the  thing's  head  on  the  nearest  rock, 
three,  four,  five  times,  and  then,  with  all  his  force,  flung 
off  the  writhing  bracelets  coiling  about  his  wrist.  He 
saw  the  fatally  wounded  serpent  strike  in  the  grass. 
It  twisted  there  tortuously,  as  the  belly  squirmed  up- 
ward to  the  sun.  With  a  shudder  he  dashed  his  hand 
in  the  water  for  a  quick  rinsing,  and  turned  about  to 
the  frightened  Genevra,  who  had  hastened  to  gain  the 
bank. 

"  Oh !"  she  said,  as  she  looked  at  him  with  her  eyes 
ablaze.  "  Oh,  thank  you — thank  you  so  much !  The 
horrible  thing !  I'm  so  glad  you  came.  I  didn't  know 
what  I  should  do." 

Roger's  face  became  deeply  red,  under  the  bronze  of 
of  his  dark  complexion. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  kill  him  before  you  came,"  he 
said,  confusedly. 

12 


HOW    TWO    MAY    MEET 


"  Did  you  know  it  was  here  ?"  she  cried. 

"  No,"  he  admitted,  and  a  twinkle  brightly  lighted 
his  eyes. 

"  Then  you  couldn't — you  couldn't  have  killed  it," 
she  told  him.  "  You  were  awfully  good  to  come — and 
brave." 

"He  wouldn't  have  hurt  me,"  said  Roger.  "But 
I'm  glad.'"  He  looked  at  her  furtively,  for  his  heart 
was  leaping,  and  this,  he  felt,  she  would  be  certain  to 
detect  if  she  looked  into  his  eyes — like  that.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  gazing  upon  her.  He  saw  no 
freckles.  To  him  she  was  wondrously  beautiful.  "  I 
think  there  won't  be  any  more,"  he  presently  added, 
which  was  one  way  of  saying  that  perhaps  he  had  better 
be  starting  along  on  his  mission. 

"  There  might  be  more,"  said  Genevra,  alarmed  at 
the  bare  possibility.  "  Oh,  dear !  I  wonder  if  you  are 
going  up  this  way?"  She  indicated  a  point  above, 
beyond  the  bend  of  the  stream. 

"  No,"  Roger  confessed,  honestly.  "  I  was  going 
over  there  in  the  woods." 

"Oh!" 

There  was  another  silence  as  they  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  brook.  Then  she  said,  as  if  in  compliance  with 
any  canons  which  might  still  be  possible,  '  My  name 
is  Genevra  Harberton." 

"  Mine  is  Roger  Gordon,"  said  the  boy.  The  intro- 
13 


THE    INEVITABLE 


duction  being  thus  made  complete,  they  looked  at  each 
other  with  the  franker  interest  to  which  they  felt  they 
were  now  entitled. 

"  I  like  it  here,"  said  Roger,  looking  straight  into 
her  eyes. 

"  So  do  I,"  she  responded.     "  Are  you  going  fish- 

ing?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  more  at  ease.  "  I  was  going 
to  string  my  'cello  and  see  if  the  thing  can  be  played." 

"  Your  'cello  ?"  she  echoed.  "  Have  you  got  a  'cello 
in  the  woods  ?" 

"  Not  a  regular  'cello,"  Roger  admitted.  "  It's  one 
I  made  myself.  But  I  think  it  ought  to  play." 

"  Are  you  going  to  play  on  it  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  it  will  play.  I'm  going  to  string  it  and  try." 
His  eyes  began  to  glow.  He  concluded,  "  I  am  sure 
it  will  make  some  kind  of  music." 

"  I  like  music,"  said  Genevra.  "  I  like  it  very,  very 
much." 

"  Do  you  ?  I  am  glad  you  do.  I  have  to  love  it,"  he 
told  her,  earnestly.  In  some  eagerness  he  added, 
"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  'cello  and  hear  me  play  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !"  replied  Genevra,  impulsively.  "  Take 
my  hand, — there  might  be  more  horrid  snakes." 

She  flushed  as  her  hand  so  strangely  tingled  and 
burned  in  his,  but  she  liked  it.  She  had  never  liked 
anything  in  such  a  way  as  this  before;  it  was  all  so 


HOW    TWO    MAY    MEET 


exciting.  A  new  ecstasy  raced  in  her  veins  as  she  and 
Roger  started  together  for  the  forest. 

"  We  do  not  have  such  snakes  in  England,  so  that 
is  why  I  am  not  very  brave  about  them,"  she  said,  in 
deference  to  any  needed  explanations. 

Roger  wanted  no  explanations.  His  heart  was 
swinging  tumultuously  in  his  breast.  He  was  almost 
faint,  so  powerful  was  some  surging  emotion  which 
suddenly  stirred  a  nature  he  had  not  known  he  pos- 
sessed. He  hardly  dared  to  speak,  lest  this  strange, 
wild  joy  should  escape. 

Their  knees  whipped  aside  the  flowers  where  they 
walked.  The  snake,  employed  by  fate  for  a  go-be- 
tween, had  not  been  sent  in  vain. 


II 

AN    UNDERLYING    MOTIF 


ROGER  led  the  way  through  the  growth  to  a  small, 
shaded  clearing  in  the  forest.  Near  the  centre  of  this 
stood  the  trunk  of  a  tree  long  dead.  Decades  before, 
the  wind  had  bent  the  tree  backward,  and  then  a  fire 
had  eaten  it  off  in  such  a  manner  that  its  broad,  round 
base  still  remained,  though  it  was  now  but  a  hollow 
shell,  while  above  this  the  wood  tapered  off  abruptly 
to  a  straight  piece  not  three  inches  wide  nor  two  in 
thickness.  This  spike  that  pointed  upward  like  a 
finger,  was  about  two  feet  long.  The  stump  was  of 
some  hard  wood.  Scraped  of  its  charred  surface,  it 
was  now  a  rusty  dark  red,  seasoned  by  years  of 
weather. 

Before  this  stump  Roger  came  to  a  halt.  Reluc- 
tantly he  released  his  hold  of  Genevra's  hand. 

"  This  is  my  'cello,"  he  said.  "  It  won't  take  a  min- 
ute to  string  it.'" 

Genevra  looked  at  this  fragment  of  a  tree.  She  saw 
that  Roger  had  smoothed  the  wood,  that  he  had  cut 
two  S-shaped  holes  through  the  hollow  body,  that 
already  one  string  was  secured  across  a  rudely  whit- 
tled bridge,  and  that  ample  pegs  for  other  strings  had 

16 


AN    UNDERLYING    MOTIF 


been  thrust  into  holes  at  the  top  of  the  instrument's 
neck.  But  her  wonder  abandoned  the  'cello  soon. 
She  preferred  to  look  at  Roger. 

Even  as  he  tuned  the  strings,  his  head  was  moving 
in  quick  little  jerks,  and  joy  and  delight  were  dancing 
in  his  eyes.  Already  the  spirit  of  music  possessed 
him.  Then  his  nostrils  took  on  a  fine-chiselled  ap- 
pearance, and  his  cheeks  a  look  like  metalic  bronze, 
till  the  refinement  of  power  seemed  written  on  his 
countenance. 

Genevra  clasped  her  hands  and  pressed  them  hard 
against  her  throbbing  bosom,  as  Roger,  with  swift 
movements,  tightened  the  last  of  the  cords  with  the 
twisting  pegs.  Why  this  excitement  so  enthralled  her 
she  could  not  have  told. 

She  hardly  knew  where  his  bow  had  come  from 
when  the  boy  deftly  drew  it  from  the  hollow  of  the 
tree.  It  was  crude  enough  to  advertise  the  fact  that 
Roger  had  made  it.  He  struck  with  it  sharply  across 
the  strings,  with  a  strong,  eager  movement. 

The  old  tree  shivered.  The  note  was  a  hoarse,  un- 
steady utterance,  as  if  from  some  unwilling  forest- 
spirit,  who  answered,  while  not  yet  awake,  "  I  come." 

A  flush  showed  red  beneath  Roger's  brown  com- 
plexion. His  eyes  blazed.  He  tightened  two  of  the 
strings  anew  and  drew  his  bow  again. 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  timber  in  the  stump,  down 
2  17 


THE    INEVITABLE 


to  the  very  roots  in  the  earth.  The  player  trembled. 
His  fingers  then  began  to  dance  upon  the  strings, 
quietly,  and  the  bow  to  glide  with  a  swaying  touch 
upon  the  vibrant  instrument. 

The  rich,  low  notes  that  issued  forth  were  not  appar- 
ently made  with  any  attempt  at  musical  consequence. 
Yet  presently  all  became  orderly,  ranging  themselves 
in  a  weird  bit  of  composition,  suggesting  rhythmical 
coherence.  In  the  midst  of  this  the  bow  lost  its  hold. 
Roger  had  forgotten  his  resin.  He  looked  at  Genevra, 
standing  rapt  before  him,  with  the  green  of  the  woods 
behind  her.  A  flame  leaped  up  in  his  eyes,  to  answer 
the  light  in  hers. 

"  I'll  play  something,  made  up  just  for  you !"  he 
cried  to  her,  joyously. 

With  his  bow  in  hand  he  sprang  to  a  near-by  pine- 
tree,  out  of  which  the  sap  had  oozed  and  hardened  on 
the  bark.  Upon  these  lumps  he  slashed  his  bow.  With 
strokes  swung  wide  and  strong,  he  cut,  as  with  a 
sword,  at  the  pitch. 

Then  back  to  the  'cello  he  ran  fiercely.  Yet  when 
he  laid  that  lusty  bow  upon  the  strings,  a  bird-note  of 
brightness  chirruped  forth  from  the  contact.  He 
laughed  aloud  and  threw  back  his  head.  Then  tones 
somewhat  crudely  adequate  in  the  expression  of  his 
newly  born  emotions  came  forth  in  the  improvisation 
that  leaped  from  the  heart  of  the  tree. 

18 


AN    UNDERLYING    MOTIF 


It  was  hardly  music;  it  was  far  from  being  mas- 
terly or  wonderful.  But  it  was  oddly  original,  pleas- 
ant, engaging,  for  its  youthful  recklessness  and  dar- 
ing. Roger's  eyes  were  dancing  to  its  measure.  His 
head  and  shoulders  swayed  to  the  rhythm.  It  was 
the  beat  of  the  time,  banjo-like,  but  sensuous  and 
dance-compelling  as  it  stirred  the  pulse,  that  made  the 
playing  magnetic. 

Genevra,  still  gazing  upon  him,  her  hands  clasped 
and  pressed  against  her  bosom,  was  flushed  with  emo- 
tion. Her  parted  lips  caught  swiftly  at  quick,  hot 
breaths.  Her  slumbrous  eyes  were  afire.  An  all- 
unreasoning  passion  overflowed  her  heart  and  bosom. 
The  music  enthralled  her  immature  fancy.  Her 
nature  was  abandoned  to  sudden-born  love. 

Roger  looked  in  her  eyes  and  played  what  his  fever 
commanded.  The  notes  that  flung  from  his  bow  con- 
veyed youth's  thoughtless,  uncontainable  delight. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  away  off  towards  the  river,  a 
deep,  melancholy  note  was  sounded,  where  a  hound 
ran  baying  in  the  forest. 

Yet  the  music,  more  stirring  their  hearts  to  dancing 
than  before,  went  on.  In  its  unfinished  way  it  was 
voluptuous,  intoxicating,  irresistible.  The  two  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  notes  that  so  voiced  what  their 
hearts  would  have  rung  with  their  beating.  Once 
again,  and  yet  again,  however,  that  deep,  depressing 

19 


THE    INEVITABLE 


note  haunted  the  woods,  where  the  hound  came  nearer 
and  nearer. 

Gradually  the  bow  was  quieting,  where  it  swung  on 
the  strings.  The  playing  presently  ceased.  Roger 
permitted  the  bow  to  drop  from  his  hand  as  he  looked 
in  Genevra's  eyes.  He  laughed  boyishly.  Genevra 
had  come  so  close.  He  could  see  not  one  of  the 
freckles  gathered  in  a  little  colony  on  her  nose  and 
cheeks.  To  him  she  was  beautiful  beyond  belief. 

"  Genevra,  I  love  to  play  for  you,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  like  it — I  love  it  so,"  she  answered,  with  a 
tremulous  breath.  Impulsively  and  childishly  she  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  rested  on  his  heart,  trem- 
bling. 

He  held  her  close  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  burn- 
ing lips. 

The  second  of  ecstasy  was  suddenly  broken.  With 
an  echoing  bellow,  a  hound  crashed  through  the  under- 
growth not  ten  rods  away,  and  came  loping  heavily 
up  to  the  startled  pair. 

With  a  cry  of  dismay  Genevra  caught  Roger  by 
the  hand,  and  together  they  ran.  The  dog  overtook 
them  swiftly.  He  plunged  against  the  boy  and  nosed 
him  nearly  off  his  legs.  Apparently  satisfied  with 
this,  he  let  out  a  great  note  of  melancholy  and  loped 
away.  But  near  at  hand  another  hound,  not  yet  to 
be  seen,  bayed  an  answer.  This  was  followed  by  a 

20 


AN    UNDERLYING    MOTIF 


note  from  a  third  great  brute.  Genevra  cried  to  Roger 
to  hasten  faster,  and  breathlessly  they  darted  on  be- 
tween the  trees. 

As  if  already  they  had  scented  their  quarry,  the 
hounds  that  had  not  yet  seen  the  running  pair  now 
came  rapidly  towards  them.  In  her  fright  Genevra 
tripped  and  partially  fell.  Roger  was  lifting  her 
again  to  her  feet,  trying  to  assist  her  forward,  when 
not  only  the  two  hounds,  but  also  several  men  on 
horseback,  broke  from  cover  and  came  galloping  hotly 
towards  them. 

With  hoarse  shouts  the  men  greeted  the  sight  of 
Roger,  as  he  strove,  apparently,  to  drag  his  helpless 
girl  companion  farther  away  towards  the  depths  of 
the  forest. 


21 


Ill 

TO    RIGHT  A  WRONG 


WITH  a  curse  and  a  cry  of  satisfaction,  two  of  the 
horsemen  threw  themselves  from  their  saddles  and, 
running  to  Roger,  seized  him  violently.  One  of  them 
swore  again  fiercely,  and  struck  the  boy  a  blow  that 
dazed  him.  The  other,  heedless  of  her  cries,  dragged 
the  frightened  Genevra  away  to  give  her  in  charge  of 
a  youth  who  rode  with  the  party,  while  her  boy  com- 
panion of  a  moment  before  was  knocked  down,  pin- 
ioned to  the  earth,  and  bound  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back. 

"  There's  another — the  dogs  have  got  another,"  said 
one  of  the  men,  who  heard,  from  afar,  the  note  where 
the  hounds  were  baying.  "  Two  of  you  rush  him  to 
Jackson's.  Hank,  let  her  go  by  herself.  Sissy,  you're 
safe  to  go  home.  George,  Bill,  come  on,  for  the  dogs !" 

The  whole  proceeding  had  occupied  less  than  two 
minutes.  Genevra  heard  the  hounds  again  at  their 
terrible  work.  She  saw  Roger  rudely  lifted  to  his 
feet  and  dragged  away.  Only  when  she  found  herself 
presently  left  there  alone,  frightened,  dumfounded, 
did  she  comprehend  that  the  leader  of  the  horsemen 
had  meant  herself  when  he  said  she  was  safe  to  go 
home. 

22 


TO    RIGHT   A   WRONG 


Roger,  who  had  been  too  amazed  and  roughly  han- 
dled to  find  his  voice,  was  now  so  choked  that  he 
could  no  more  than  breathe.  The  man  who  held  him 
by  the  coat  at  the  back  of  his  neck  was  so  angered 
that  nothing  but  curses  arose  to  his  tongue.  He  and 
his  fellow-horseman  were  not  a  pair  of  ruffians;  they 
were  men  of  the  town,  a  mile  away.  Now,  however, 
with  their  faces  flushed  with  the  wrath  that  was  in 
them,  they  were,  in  appearance,  very  fiends  of  ven- 
geance. 

As  they  hustled  their  captive  angrily  towards  the 
town  the  baying  of  the  hounds  came  abruptly  nearer. 
The  cries  of  the  horsemen  who  had  ridden  away  could 
be  heard  distinctly.  As  if  in  answer,  a  chorus  of 
shouts,  farther  off  in  the  other  direction,  announced 
the  approach  of  another  party  of  angered  citizens. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  woods  were  peopled  with 
men.  A  scream,  where  the  dogs  were  sounding  their 
dreadful  exultation,  pierced  through  the  air  sugges- 
tively. 

"  Got  him !  Bit  him !"  said  one  of  the  men  with 
Roger. 

A  moment  later  they  issued  from  the  edge  of  the 
growth  of  saplings.  Two  spectacles  were  noted 
almost  simultaneously.  One  was  that  of  a  mob  of 
frenzied  men,  strung  out  as  they  came,  running  madly 
towards  the  trees.  They  were  armed  with  guns,  almost 

23 


THE    INEVITABLE 


to  a  man.  They  were  bawling  hoarsely.  The  other 
scene  comprised  only  three  great  hounds  pouncing 
upon  and  bearing  to  earth  a  negro  man,  who  fought 
them  and  ran,  for  the  moment  that  passed  before  his 
pursuers  dashed  from  the  woods,  rode  him  down,  and 
plunged  from  their  horses  to  secure  him. 

The  mob  which  had  come  from  the  town  beheld 
with  savage  satisfaction  the  capture  of  the  negro  and 
the  sight  of  the  group  with  Roger.  The  foremost  of 
these  agitated  citizens  ran  up  to  the  captors  who  were 
marching  with  the  boy,  and  yelled  thus  to  see  him. 

"  Got  two  ?"  cried  one,  who  carried  a  rifle.  "  Poor 
Mary's  dead, — never  recovered." 

He  hastened  on  towards  the  horsemen.  The  mob 
behind  him  came  streaming  swiftly  on  his  track. 
Nearly  every  man  shouted,  to  express  either  his  hatred 
and  fierce  thirst  for  violence,  or  to  make  a  frenzied 
repetition  of  the  news  that  some  victim  of  violence 
was  dead.  Roger  and  his  captors  were  swept  along 
with  the  tide  of  brutalized  beings  towards  the  group 
where  the  negro  had  now  been  captured  and  bound. 

The  ominous  buzzing  when  the  mob  had  surged 
hotly  into  one  compact  mass  about  the  two  fellow- 
beings  thus  dragged  to  their  midst  was  terrible. 

"  Mary's  dead !  Mary's  dead !"  leaped  from  lip  to 
lip. 

"  String  him  up !  Riddle  him !"  cried  a  blacksmith 
24 


TO    RIGHT   A    WRONG 


in  the  throng.  He  had  only  so  yelled  a  second  in 
advance  of  a  score,  who  demanded  the  same  summary 
"  justice." 

One  madman  fired  his  pistol  point-blank  at  the  negro 
captive.  The  bullet  plowed  along  the  terrified  being's 
cheek.  The  sight  of  blood  roused  the  animal  in  every 
man. 

Without  so  much  as  a  question,  to  symbolize  a  trial, 
the  doomed  black  man  was  dragged  to  the  nearest 
tree.  The  rope  was  about  his  neck  and  he  was  stran- 
gled almost  to  falling  before  the  natural  gallows  was 
gained. 

Something  dark  shot  upward  above  the  heads  of 
the  yelling  men.  A  fusilade  of  shots  rang  out  sharply. 
Then  five,  seven,  desultory  reports  from  shot-guns, 
revolvers,  and  rifles  seemed  to  express  the  dying  away 
of  the  greatest  heat  of  the  madness.  But  men  still 
cursed  and  shouted. 

"  Up  with  the  other !"  yelled  a  voice,  and  Roger 
saw  a  wild-eyed  being  lurching  towards  him.  "  Jerk 
him  up!  Damn  all  the  niggers!" 

"  Wait !  It  wasn't  him,"  cried  another,  sickened 
by  what  they  had  done.  "  There  wasn't  but  one,  and 
we've  paid  the  bill  for  Mary." 

"  This  one  we  caught  in  the  woods,  dragging  a 
little  girl  away,"  answered  one  of  the  captors,  whose 
thirst  for  violent  deeds  had  only  been  whetted.  "  By 

25 


THE    INEVITABLE 


God,  he's  a  nigger !  He's  like  all  the  rest.  We  caught 
him  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"  Up  with  him !  Up  with  him !  Do  the  job  up 
clean!" 

"  Give  us  some  more  of  that  rope !" 

"  Wait  a  minute,  boys ;  it's  young  Gordon !"  cried 
a  man,  who  alone  of  all  that  mad  horde  seemed  to 
know  the  frightened  boy. 

"  Let  me  at  him,"  said  a  hoarse-voiced  ruffian.  He 
shouldered  his  way  to  Roger  and  flung  a  stiff,  new 
rope,  crudely  looped,  over  their  youthful  captive's 
head.  The  mad  impulse  to  slay  could  not  be  stayed 
by  argument  nor  reason.  The  smell  and  the  sight  of 
blood  wrought  upon  everything  animal  and  ferocious 
in  the  mob. 

With  a  buzzing  of  approval  that  arose  to  fever  heat 
again,  Roger  was  being  dragged  through  the  pack  of 
men  to  the  gallows-tree,  when  another  disturbance,  on 
the  outside  edge  of  the  cluster  of  beings,  divided  the 
crowd's  attention. 

"Here!  Wait!"  bawled  a  voice.  "  Here's  the  gal 
herself!" 

The  ranks  were  opened.  Through  the  press  of  men 
Genevra  came,  impulsively  pushing  her  way  and 
thrusting  aside  all  who  opposed  her.  The  captors  who 
held  Roger  sternly  by  the  shoulders  suddenly  found 
themselves  confronted  by  a  flushed,  excited  girl, 

26 


TO    RIGHT   A    WRONG 


scarcely  more  than  a  child,  who,  with  blazing  eyes 
and  open  mouth,  came  hotly  upon  them  and  angrily 
pushed  their  hands  off  from  their  captive. 

"  Let  him  go !"  she  cried.  "  Leave  off  directly,  and 
let  him  go!" 

"  Go  on,  you  bloomin'  little  Britisher,"  snarled  back 
the  ruffian  with  the  rope.  "  What  business  you  got 
with  the  nigger?" 

"  He's  not  a  negro !  He's  an  Indian !"  she  almost 
screamed.  "  He  was  good  to  me.  He  saved  me  from 
a  horrid  snake.  He's  done  nothing  to  you.  You  leave 
off,  I  say,  directly!" 

"  Who  is  she  ?  What's  the  racket  ?"  went  from  one 
to  another. 

"  She's  a  friend  of  the  kid." 

"  She's  the  one  they  found  in  the  woods,  and  him 
with  her." 

"  She  says  he's  an  Injun." 

"  He  ain't  got  no  wool." 

"  He  ain't  so  black." 

"  He's  only  a  kid." 

"  By  God,  we've  done  hangin'  enough  for  one  after- 
noon !" 

"Let  him  go.  He  ain't  done  no  harm,  I  reckon," 
shouted  one  of  the  men,  in  a  gruff  command. 

"  Yes,  let  him  go,"  said  a  number  of  the  better  class, 
who  began  to  dread  the  work  already  performed. 

27 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  You've  got  to  let  him  go !"  cried  Genevra,  angrily 
dashing  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  pushing  the  half- 
ashamed  men  away  from  the  silent  Roger.  "  He's 
not  a  negro.  He's  as  good  as  he  can  be." 

Roger  was  looking  at  her,  stoutly  laboring  to  hold 
back  his  feelings.  His  eyes  filled;  his  lip  trembled. 
He  could  not  have  spoken  for  the  lump  in  his  throat 
and  the  surge  of  emotions  within  him. 

Genevra, was  claiming  him  undauntedly,  when  again 
the  mob,  crowding  closely  in  and  now  demanding 
Roger's  release,  was  parted  as  before.  This  time  they 
admitted  to  the  centre  a  shaggy-haired,  squint-eyed 
man,  who  was  obviously  a  gentleman  of  the  older 
school.  He  made  way  for  himself  and  a  very  much 
frightened  woman. 

"  Roger,  Roger,"  said  the  man,  gently,  "  what's  the 
meaning  of  this  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  naughty  girl,  you  artful  child !"  cried  the 
woman  beside  him,  the  moment  she  saw  Genevra. 
"  Whatever  will  your  father  say  for  this  ?" 

In  the  stress  of  the  moment  neither  Roger  nor 
Genevra  could  speak. 

"You'd  better  take  these  youngsters  home,"  said 
one. of  the  men  who  had  led  the  mob. 

Crying,  protesting,  looking  vainly  backward,  Ge- 
nevra was  led  from  the  place  by  her  governess,  whom 
sights  and  events  had  rendered  grim. 

28 


TO    RIGHT   A    WRONG 


When  Roger  and  the  shaggy-haired  old  gentleman 
had  gone,  the  shadows  of  waning  day  were  stretch- 
ing eastward  from  the  trees.  The  crowd  vanished. 
There  was  no  man  left  in  all  that  throng,  so  fevered 
but  an  hour  before,  who  cared  to  see  the  red  sunset 
behind  that  tree  with  its  burden. 

Then,  when  darkness  had  gathered,  and  truth  could 
venture  forth  and  somewhat  hide  her  shame,  the 
knowledge  spread  that  the  mob  had  caught  and  killed 
an  innocent  man. 


IV 

AN   INQUISITION 


ROGER  was  led  away  to  a  road  that  skirted  the 
woods.  Here  stood  a  dilapidated  horse  and  a  more 
dilapidated  cart,  into  the  very  composition  of  both  of 
which  the  dust  had  apparently  entered  for  years. 
Neither  man  nor  boy  had  spoken  during  their  walk. 
Roger  got  in  and  sat  down  on  the  dusty  cushion.  The 
man  untied  the  horse  and  mounted  to  a  seat  beside  his 
charge. 

He  saw  that  Roger  was  pale,  that  his  eyes  were 
downcast,  that  his  lip  trembled.  He  had  never  known 
Roger  to  be  afraid,  not  even  of  death;  he  did  not 
believe  the  boy  was  pale  and  unstrung  from  fear  even 
now. 

"  Get  along,  Jim,"  he  said  to  the  horse,  and  then  in 
a  moment  he  asked,  "  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

Roger  made  no  answer.  His  body  heaved  with  the 
sobs  which  he  could  no  longer  repress,  but  which  did 
not  force  themselves  from  his  heart  in  audible  expres- 
sion. He  dashed  hot  tears  from  his  face  time  after 
time,  but  they  could  not  be  allayed.  His  agitation 
seemed  the  more  tremendous  because  he  sobbed  so 
silently.  Well  as  his  older  companion  knew  this  pas- 
sionate grief  to  which  the  boy  at  rare  intervals  suc- 

30 


AN    INQUISITION 


cumbed,  he  had  never  known  emotion  so  to  possess 
him  nor  to  develop  to  such  violence  before.  He  asked 
no  more  questions.  He  knew  why  Roger  was  crying. 

"  They — called  me  a  nigger !"  said  the  boy  at  last, 
brokenly.  Such  utter  humiliation  as  his  voice  con- 
veyed was  painful  to  hear.  The  sobs  which  shook  him 
increased  anew.  He  bit  his  lip ;  he  hid  his  face  in  his 
sleeve. 

The  man  said  nothing.  He  had  learned  that  Roger 
was  summarily  dragged  from  the  woods,  where  the 
men  had  found  him  in  company  with  Genevra,  and, 
knowing  also  the  story  of  some  negro's  assault  on  a 
half-witted  girl,  called  "  Simple  Mary,"  he  understood 
so  much  that  further  questioning  would  have  been 
superfluous.  Therefore  he  addressed  the  horse  only, 
and  by  dint  of  much  gentle  persuasion  urged  the  ani- 
mal over  the  mile  of  road  that  lay  between  them  and 
home. 

Roger  made  no  further  statement  of  the  frenzied 
affair  in  which  he  had  figured  so  saliently.  He  calmed 
himself  by  making  such  an  effort  that  his  elderly  friend 
felt  himself  yearning  over  the  boy  with  all  his  heart. 
By  the  time  they  came  to  the  tumble-down  shed  which 
housed  the  horse,  Roger  had  so  far  mastered  his  agi- 
tation as  to  be  apparently  calm.  He  assisted  in  the 
task  of  unharnessing  "  Jim,"  but  a  stolid  silence  had 
then  settled  upon  him  out  of  which,  as  the  man  was 


THE    INEVITABLE 


aware,  'he  would  not  soon  emerge.  Moreover,  he 
knew,  from  past  experience,  that  Roger  would  wish 
to  sit  by  himself,  up  in  the  attic,  during  this  time, 
before  he  could  again  be  induced  to  speak. 

As  the  boy  went  off,  the  man  looked  after  him 
tenderly  and  shook  his  head.  Such  a  mood  as  this 
had  not  come  to  Roger  for  nearly  three  years.  On 
the  former  occasion  he  had  been  but  thirteen.  Now  that 
he  was  older,  'he  would  not  be  satisfied  so  readily  with 
indefinite  answers.  How  much  he  would  presently 
require  his  guardian  to  tell  him  of  the  little  that  he 
absolutely  knew,  the  man  could  hardly  conjecture. 

He  was  still  undecided,  sitting  alone  at  the  dinner- 
table,  where  he  was  eating  nothing,  as  he  waited 
patiently  for  Roger  to  come,  when  the  boy  at  last 
appeared. 

"  Just  in  time  for  dinner,  lad,"  said  the  man,  in  the 
kind,  indulgent  voice  which  Roger  knew  so  well.  "  Sit 
down,  sit  down." 

Roger  drew  his  chair  to  the  table.  But  he  pushed 
his  plate  away  and  laid  his  shapely  brown  hand  on  the 
cloth. 

"  Doctor  Pingle,"  he  said,  calmly,  "  who  was  my 
mother  ?" 

Doctor  Pingle  put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  took 
his  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  rubbed  them  smartly, 
and  then,  adjusting  them  with  precision,  looked  at 

32 


AN    INQUISITION 


Roger  over  the  tops  of  the  rims.  He  was  enormously 
relieved  to  have  Roger  ask  of  his  mother.  He  had 
always  heretofore  pressed  for  information  concerning 
his  father. 

"  Your  mother  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
I  ever  knew,"  said  the  man.  "  She  was  rather  small, 
but  she  was  dainty  and  lively  and — very  beautiful  to 
look  at." 

"  Was  her  hair  light  yellow?" 

"  Why,  yes,  golden, — to  be  sure  it  was.  But  I  don't 
see  how  you  knew  it." 

"  Did  she  laugh  a  good  deal,  and  show  her  pretty 
teeth?"  Roger's  inquiries  sounded  coldly  judicial. 

"  Well,  yes,  she  was  very  pleasant,"  admitted  the 
doctor. 

"  Then  she  was  the  woman  who  came  to  see  us  in 
San  Francisco,  before  we  moved." 

"  But,  my  dear  lad,  you  couldn't  remember  San 
Francisco.  We  came  to  Missouri  when  you  were  only 
a  child." 

"  I  remember  the  pretty  woman.  She  laughed  a 
kind  of  way  without  any  laugh  inside,"  Roger  said, 
reflectively.  "  She  had  a  little  girl  with  her,  and  she 
was  very  fair." 

Doctor  Pingle  took  off  his  glasses,  rubbed  them  with 
his  handkerchief,  donned  them  again,  and  looked  at 
the  boy  as  before,  over  the  tops  of  the  lenses. 
3  33 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Of  course,  of  course,"  confessed  the  man ;  "  she 
did  have  a  nice  little  girl  along." 

Roger  looked  at  him  searchingly  and  said,  "  Was 
that  little  girl  my  sister?" 

"  Why — I  believe  she  was.  She  must  have  been. 
By  all  means  she  was  your  sister." 

"Not  my  half-sister?" 

"Your  half-sister?"  The  doctor  paused  and  laid 
aside  his  glasses,  as  he  always  did  to  think.  "  Well, 
now,  I  don't  know.  Upon  my  word,  I  never  asked.  I 
couldn't  say.  It  might  be  so." 

"  I  feel  sure  of  it,"  Roger  told  him,  with  delibera- 
tion. "  She  was  so  pretty,  and  white.  I  have  decided 
that  my  mother  must  have  been  divorced  from  my 
father — or  maybe  he  died  and  she  got  married  to 
somebody  else,  and  so  she  didn't  want  me — ever — 
unless  she  came  that  time  in  San  Francisco  to  get  me 
away  from  you.  Did  she  come  for  that?" 

He  asked  this  last  question  eagerly.  It  was  a  possi- 
bility on  which  he  had  never  happened  before,  in  all 
his  wondering  as  to  his  parenthood.  Doctor  Pingle 
noted  the  boyish  yearning  for  mother-love  which  had 
burned  up  so  quickly  in  the  brown,  half-melancholy 
eyes.  He  rubbed  his  glasses  hard,  to  gain  a  moment 
of  time. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling  gently,"  she  didn't  get 
you,  Roger.  You  didn't  wish  to  leave  me  at  the  time, 

34 


AN    INQUISITION 


little  chap  as  you  were.     You  don't  regret  that  you 
stayed  with  me?" 

"  Then  she  didn't  want  me  bad  enough  to  fight  to 
get  me?"  The  boy's  disappointment  was  not  so  very 
great.  He  had  too  much  else  on  his  mind. 

"  She  saw  that  she  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  your 
sister,"  said  the  man. 

"  If  she  was  only  my  half-sister,"  the  boy  went  on, 
"  my  own  father  might  have  been — I  want  to  know 
if  he  was  dark, — as  dark  as  I  am  ?" 

"  Dark  ?  Why,  no.  You're  not  very  dark — only 
what  they  call  a  deep  olive." 

"  Then  he  was  not — negro  ?"  The  boy  was  evi- 
dently excited  to  the  last  degree.  The  look  from  his 
eyes  searched  the  man's  face  most  intently. 

"  Why,  certainly  not,"  said  the  doctor.  "  There,  there, 
eat  your  dinner,  like  a  good  sensible  lad,  and  don't  be 
bothering  your  head  with  all  this  morbid  worry." 

"  Was  he  an  Indian — I  mean  part  Indian,  or  any- 
thing like  that?" 

There  was  no  escaping  from  this  inquisition.  Roger 
was  inexorable. 

"  Indian  ?  Why,  perhaps  he  was — partly.  I  never 
asked  him,  but  his  grandfather,  or  his  great-grand- 
father, might  very  well  have  married  the  daughter 
of  a  chief  of  some  of  those  tribes  of  the  Eastern 
States." 

35 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that !"  said  the  boy,  passion- 
ately. "  I  don't  see  why  you  never  told  me  that  before. 
But  there  must  be  more  about  me — there  must  be  a 
great  deal  I  ought  to  know.  There  are  secrets  about 
me.  I  knew  it  must  be  Indian  in  me!  I  knew  I 
wasn't — anything  else !  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about 
my  father — and  mother." 

"  Lad,  lad,  eat  your  dinner,"  urged  Doctor  Pingle. 
"  We'll  have  some  music  when  you've  finished,  and 
forget  all  this  unpleasant  business." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  about  myself  and  my  father. 
You  told  me  once  that  some  day  I  should  know  all 
about  everything." 

"  So  you  shall,  some  day,  Roger.  Let  it  go  at  that. 
I  believe  provision  was  made  to  inform  you  of  all 
you  could  wish  to  know;  indeed,  such  provision  was 
made,  but  the  matter  was  to  rest  till  you  should  arrive 
at  your  twenty-fourth  year.  There,  now,  I've  told 
you  more  than  I  had  any  business  to  tell,  so  let  it  go 
at  that  and  be  patient — and  happy.  Do !" 

"  I  am  sixteen  now,"  said  Roger,  insistently.  "  If 
you  had  been  through — everything  to-day,  you  would 
feel  fifty  years  old." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  I  should." 

"  Well,  then,  I'm  old  enough.  I  want  to  know 
everything." 

"  The  few  notes  I've  got  are  not  at  hand,"  said  the 
36 


AN    INQUISITION 


doctor,  somewhat  helplessly.  He  had  heretofore 
encountered  only  indications  of  this  masterful  mood 
which  Roger  was  developing. 

"  I  could  get  them.  Where  are  they  ?"  Roger 
replied. 

"  They  are  over  to — my  lawyer  has  them,  locked  in 
my  box." 

"Mr.  Bixby?  I'll  go  over  and  tell  him  you  want 
the  box.  I  can  bring  it  home  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  don't  go  bothering  about  the  thing  to-night. 
Come,  come,  let's  have  a  little  music,  and  think  no 
more  about  anything  painful.  I  think  I  shall  have  to 
manage  to  get  you  a  'cello.  I  think  I  can  manage." 

Roger  had  risen  from  the  table  to  go  back  to  the 
rack  for  his  hat.  "  I  couldn't  play  to-night,"  he  said. 
"  I  couldn't.  I  would  rather  not  try.  Please  let  me 
go  for  the  box." 

The  mention  of  the  coveted  violincello  'having  failed 
to  hold  him,  the  doctor  knew  that  further  persuasion 
would  be  wasted. 

"  Don't  be  gone  long,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sorry  you 
can't  wait  till  to-morrow.  The  moon  will  be  up  by 
the  time  you  are  coming  home." 

Roger  halted  by  the  door  for  a  second.  "  I  wish 
you  had  been  my  father,"  he  said,  and  he  went  out 
and  started  briskly  across  the  near-lying  fields. 


37 


V 

IN   THE  SHADOWS 


THE  moon  was  well  up  and  laying  her  plating  of 
beauty  and  softened  light  upon  woods,  meadows,  and 
villages  by  the  time  the  boy  was  heading  homeward. 
Of  the  two  small  towns,  one  of  which  had  sprung 
into  being  a  mile  from  its  sister,  when  the  railroad 
spanned  the  country,  the  one  where  lawyer  Bixby 
resided  was  the  larger.  It  had  grown  around  the  spot 
where  a  spring  had  made  a  water-tank  convenient  for 
the  railroad.  Therefore  it  was  quite  in  back  of  the 
woods  from  the  village  to  which  Doctor  Pingle  had 
remained  loyally  attached. 

The  road  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  towns  skirted 
the  woods.  Roger  had  come  by  the  road,  after  clear- 
ing the  field  that  stretched  from  the  doctor's  house 
towards  the  trees.  Now,  however,  since  the  moon  was 
up,  he  was  trudging  home  by  one  of  the  numerous 
paths  through  the  forest  which  pedestrians  had  made 
in  seeking  a  straighter  route  between  the  villages. 

Beneath  his  arm  he  held  a  square  tin  box,  provided 
with  a  padlock  so  large  that  it  might  almost  have  held 
the  contents  of  the  box  itself.  This  ingenious  piece  of 
mechanism  was  the  weightiest  thing  about  his  burden. 

38 


IN    THE    SHADOWS 


The  tin  receptacle  evidently  harbored  but  a  meagre 
hoard  of  documents.  Roger  could  shake  them  about 
inside.  To  him  they  were  ponderous  enough,  for 
heaven  only  knew  what  weight  of  things  fateful  their 
contents  might  reveal.  In  the  core  of  his  soul  the  boy 
still  felt  the  torturing  flames  of  anger  and  utter  humili- 
ation which  must  burn,  it  seemed  to  him,  for  a  time 
indefinite. 

Even  as  he  walked  he  lived  again  and  again  those 
terrible  moments  when  the  rope  began  its  constriction 
on  his  neck  and  fellow-beings  bawled  their  demands 
for  his  life.  Hot,  galling  tears  of  shame  and  anger 
arose  to  his  eyes  till  he  stumbled  blindly  where  he 
walked. 

He  took  little  notice,  save  in  a  general  way,  of  the 
path  he  was  following.  Of  the  cool  sweetness  of  the 
forest  and  the  ineffable  beauty  of  the  night  he  felt,  for 
once,  no  consciousness.  It  had  amazed  Doctor  Pingle 
to  see  to  what  depths  the  boy's  agitation  had  extended, 
and  yet  the  man  had  not  begun  to  sound  the  feelings 
which  Roger  was  undergoing. 

Changing  his  course,  the  sooner  to  emerge  from  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  which  depressed  him  immeasur- 
ably, the  boy  had  come  almost  to  the  clearing  when 
he  was  suddenly  halted  by  the  sound  of  some  one  cry- 
ing. Having  paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  course 
he  was  following,  Roger  did  not  realize  exactly  where 

39 


THE    INEVITABLE 


he  was.  Such  sobbing  as  came  to  his  ears,  from  some- 
where near  by,  he  had  not  heard  till  now.  It  was  grief 
that  choked  the  half-audible  sound — grief  which  had 
obviously  been  protracted,  without  remission.  There 
was  also  in  its  tone  such  expression  of  terror  as  one 
might  not  hear  and  avoid  a  feeling  of  awe. 

Without  hesitation,  when  he  had  ascertained  the 
direction  whence  the  sounds  proceeded,  Roger  glided 
through  the  shadows  that  lay  between  himself  and  the 
open  space  beyond.  He  emerged  from  the  trees  into 
the  moonlight  and  halted. 

While  a  feeling  of  dread  crept  up  through  his  hair, 
he  stood  there  gazing  at  the  gallows-tree  of  the  after- 
noon, with  its  dark  burden  swinging  from  a  limb. 
Then  as  the  sobbing  sounded  more  distinctly,  he 
looked  down  at  the  feet  of  that  grim  object,  and  beheld 
a  child,  a  little  mulatto  girl,  sitting  on  the  ground 
beneath  that  form,  clasping  the  two  cold  feet  in  her 
arms  and  weeping  as  he  had  never  known  that  any 
one  could  weep. 

He  stood  there  regarding  the  scene  uncertainly.  It 
was  dreadful  to  hear  that  sobbing ;  it  was  more  dread- 
ful to  think  what  that  lifeless  form  had  been  to  this 
child.  He  dreaded  the  thought  of  approaching  the 
thing,  after  his  own  appalling  experience  earlier  in 
the  day.  To  leave  the  spot  at  once  was  the  impulse 
that  came  most  strongly  upon  him.  Having  come  in 

40 


IN    THE    SHADOWS 


silence,  he  started  in  silence  to  get  away,  back  to  the 
shadows  of  the  trees. 

But  he  could  not  so  depart.  What  he  had  suffered 
from  his  humiliation  sank  into  insignificance  beside 
the  anguish  of  this  lonely  child.  His  sense  of  com- 
passion bound  him  where  he  was.  His  own  troubles 
disappeared  before  those  of  the  girl,  whose  object  of 
affection  was  so  terrible. 

Stepping  out  in  the  moonlight,  he  went  slowly  for- 
ward. He  knew  when  the  child  discovered  his  pres- 
ence, for  the  catch  in  her  crying  and  the  note  of  alarm 
were  unmistakable. 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  said,  coaxingly.  "  Don't  cry.  I'm 
very  sorry."  He  went  up  quite  close  to  where  the 
little  mulatto  girl  was  cringing  in  affright  on  the 
ground. 

She  could  not  repress  the  sobbing  which  had  become 
somewhat  hysterical.  The  sounds  that  she  made  were 
distressing,  as  she  stared  up  at  the  'half-lighted  face 
of  her  visitor  and  caught  at  her  crying  spasmodically. 

"  I  wouldn't  stay — here,"  said  Roger,  in  his  sym- 
pathy. "  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  wouldn't  stay  and  cry. 
I'll  go  home  with  you  now,  if  you  want  me  to." 

The  child  before  him  could  make  no  answer.  She 
still  clung  to  that  dark  object  and  looked  at  Roger  and 
sobbed. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  home?"  said  the  boy,  gently. 
41 


THE    INEVITABLE 


She  nodded  the  answer  which  she  could  not  speak. 

"All  right,"  Roger  added,  "I'll  take  you  home. 
Don't  you  want  to  go  now?" 

"  There  ain't — nobody — there,"  said  the  child,  speak- 
ing brokenly  and  with  much  difficulty. 

She  had  lifted  her  face  so  that  the  moonlight  fell 
upon  it.  Roger  knew  then  who  she  was.  It  was  little 
Teresa  Berry,  whose  parents,  both  mulattoes,  had  for 
long  enjoyed  the  respect  of  Doctor  Pingle  and  several 
other  residents  of  the  village,  who  had  frequently  given 
employment  both  to  Clem  and  to  Clara,  his  wife.  Clara 
Berry  had  died  a  little  less  than  a  month  before. 
Roger,  therefore,  understood  Teresa  thoroughly  when 
she  said  there  was  no  one  at  home. 

"  Then  you  had  better  come  home  with  me,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment  of  reflection.  "  Do  you  want  to  do 
that?" 

Teresa  was  still  shaken  with  sobs.  She  nodded  as 
before,  but  made  no  movement  to  leave  the  place 
where  she  was  sitting. 

"  I  meant  now,  Teresa,"  the  boy  added.  "  I  wouldn't 
stay  here  any  more."  He  held  out  his  hand  to  assist 
her  to  rise. 

Teresa  partially  arose  to  her  knees  and  put  out  her 
hand,  till  Roger  took  it.  Then  she  flung  her  other  arm 
about  that  grim  form  again  and  leaned  against  it, 
burying  her  face  and  weeping  anew  'heart-brokenly. 

42 


IN    THE    SHADOWS 


"  Oh — my — honey — papa !  she  sobbed.  "  My — 
papa !  my  papa !" 

Roger  waited  in  patience.  The  soft  hand  in  his 
clung  to  him  desperately.  "  I'm  awful  sorry.  Come 
on  home,  Teresa,"  he  said. 

When  she  stood  up  at  last  her  face  was  hidden  in 
her  arm,  as  she  cried  afresh,  more  quietly,  more  in  the 
grief  of  affliction  and  bereavement. 

The  boy  said  nothing,  as  he  led  her  gently  away. 
They  walked  but  slowly,  for  Teresa  stumbled  often, 
still  bowing  her  head  in  her  bended  arm,  and  striving 
to  master  her  sobbing.  What  between  a  sense  of  shame 
she  felt,  thus  to  be  leaving  her  father  alone  in  the 
shadows,  and  the  weakness  occasioned  by  the  touch  of 
sympathy,  the  child  could  neither  speak  nor  lift  her 
eyes. 

"  Don't  cry  any  more,  Teresa,"  said  Roger  at  last. 
"  We  are  almost  home." 

Teresa  raised  her  head  as  bravely  as  she  could,  but 
she  made  no  attempt  to  answer. 

Thus  they  came  together  to  the  entrance  of  Doctor 
Pingle's  house.  He  had  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps 
on  his  walk.  Before  Roger  could  knock,  the  man 
opened  the  door  and  looked  out  upon  them  in  wonder. 

"  To-day  that  was  Teresa's  father,"  said  the  boy. 
"  I  have  brought  her  home." 


43 


VI 

ADJUSTING   TERESA 


CONCERNING  the  freightage  of  information  which 
the  papers  in  the  iron  box  contained  Roger  still  re- 
mained in  ignorance,  even  after  several  days  had 
passed,  with  the  papers  in  the  house.  This  was  not 
entirely  due  to  the  natural  distraction  which  the  advent 
of  Teresa  had  occasioned.  Roger  was  not  of  a  nature 
to  be  distracted  from  an  object  for  long.  But  Doctor 
Pingle,  having  once  more  fingered  the  envelopes  which 
the  box  had  held  till  now,  and  having  read  upon  them 
that  they  were  only  to  be  opened  and  read  by  Roger 
Gordon  himself,  when  his  twenty-fourth  birthday 
should  arrive,  had  refused  to  break  his  trust.  There- 
fore the  box  was  again  adorned  with  its  cumbersome 
padlock,  and  the  doctor's  lips  were  resolutely  sealed. 

Roger  himself  soon  realized  that  Doctor  Pingle  was 
sufficiently  employed  with  the  problem  of  what  to  do 
with  Teresa.  Her  father's  body  had  been  interred  at 
the  expense  of  the  county,  but  the  doctor  had  not  been 
convinced  that  any  care  of  the  child  which  it  might  be 
possible  to  exact  from  the  State  would  prove  a  com- 
fort to  the  somewhat  lorn  little  figure. 

She  clung  to  Roger  with  all  the  affection  and  yearn- 
ing of  her  nature.  That  her  feelings  should  thus  have 

44 


ADJUSTING   TERESA 


been  transferred  to  the  boy  was  natural.  Her  love 
developed  swiftly,  to  something  more  than  a  filial  or 
even  a  sisterly  regard.  He  had  come  to  her  in  gentle- 
ness and  with  courage,  at  her  hour  of  bitterest  shame 
and  bereavement.  He  had  brothered  her  since. 

Besides  the  compassion  in  his  heart,  and  the  courage 
with  which  the  boy  had  been  born,  Roger  had  a  sense  of 
justice  and  right  which  were  extraordinarily  developed. 
The  hideous  wrong  which  the  mob  had  done  demanded 
retribution  for  Teresa.  If  this  could  not  be  secured, 
then  there  was  all  the  more  reason  why  he  and  Doctor 
Pingle  should  protect  the  child  from  further  grief,  and 
afford  her  what  compensation  they  could,  as  friends 
and  guardians. 

That  the  boy  could  reciprocate  the  feeling  which 
had  leaped  into  Teresa's  heart  towards  him  was  impos- 
sible. He  was  not  even  aware  of  the  childish  adora- 
tion in  which  Teresa  held  him.  His  thoughts  fled 
back  to  that  sweet,  impulsive  little  companion  of  the 
brook,  who  had  gone  with  him  hand  in  hand  to  where 
he  played  his  'cello;  who  had  saved  his  life,  at  a 
moment  most  terrible;  who  had  called  upon  his  name 
as  her  governess  dragged  her  away.  He  thought  of 
his  music — the  music  that  flowed  through  his  soul — 
day  and  night,  demanding  expression,  ready  to  leap 
into  audible  sound,  if  only  he  could  find  Genevra 
again. 

45 


THE    INEVITABLE 


How  often  soever  he  returned  to  the  brook,  where 
he  had  found  her  first,  he  could  find  her  no  more. 
And  when,  on  these  occasions,  he  went  to  the  clearing 
in  the  greenwood,  where  was  his  tree-'cello,  he  stood 
silent  before  it,  without  the  heart  to  play,  and  looked 
at  it  yearningly,  as  if  to  conjure  Genevra  back  to  the 
scene.  He  had  played  it  first  for  Genevra;  he  would 
never  play  it  again  till  she  should  stand  there  beside 
him  to  listen. 

In  the  mean  time  Doctor  Pingle  was  somewhat  con- 
cerned as  to  what  was  now  to  be  done  with  Teresa. 
To  keep  her  there  beneath  his  roof  indefinitely  was 
out  of  the  question.  To  place  her  in  any  of  the  State 
institutions  he  had  early  decided  he  would  not  attempt 
to  do.  He  began  to  regret  that  his  practice  of  medi- 
cine had  fallen  into  such  entire  neglect.  His  boyish 
love  for  music,  choked  back,  with  all  the  flighty  ambi- 
tions of  youth,  at  the  instance  of  his  parents,  had 
come  creeping  slyly  upon  him,  in  the  man's  more 
peaceful  years.  He  had  courted  it  almost  in  secret, 
in  that  spirit  of  concealment  bequeathed  him  from  his 
youth.  Though  his  practice  had  dwindled  and  been 
permitted  to  slip  him  by,  it  had  formerly  earned  him 
enough  to  keep  him  from  want  for  the  rest  of  his 
days.  There  was  still  a  guilty  feeling  upon  him, 
nevertheless,  as  if  his  parents  were  always  about  to 
reprove  him  for  spending  his  time  with  idle  music. 

46 


ADJUSTING    TERESA 


He  told  himself  now  that  had  he  kept  up  his  practice 
he  would  know  of  some  one  to  whom  he  could  take 
the  parentless  child,  with  a  confidence  that  she  would 
always  be  thoughtfully  treated. 

Harking  back  upon  the  days  when  he  was  a  doctor 
in  performance  as  well  as  in  name,  he  at  length  re- 
membered another  mulatto  couple,  whose  baby-girl, 
had  it  lived,  would  have  been  but  a  few  months  older 
than  Teresa.  Therefore  when  he  came  trudging 
home,  one  day,  from  a  pilgrimage  across  the  country 
to  the  railroad  village,  he  met  Teresa  at  his  own 
little  gate  with  the  tidings  that  he  had  found  her  a 
happy,  comfortable  home,  where  a  good  woman  was 
longing  to  expend  her  pent-up  mother-love  on  a  child 
she  could  have  for  her  own. 

Teresa  listened  silently.  She  was  a  pretty  little 
thing.  There  was  red  beneath  the  tint  of  her  chocolate 
cheeks ;  her  face  was  round  and  smooth ;  her  eyes  were 
frank  and  trusting;  her  features  were  rather  pleasing. 
Now,  as  she  learned  she  must  not  expect  to  remain 
here  in  this  haven,  where  Roger  could  be  seen  and 
talked  with  every  day,  an  expression  of  sadness  came 
upon  her  face,  and  the  light  of  joy  burned  out  in  her 
eyes. 

She  said  nothing,  however.  The  little  thing  had  a 
sense  of  dignity.  She  had  not  revealed  her  feeling 
for  Roger ;  she  accepted  the  doctor's  decision. 

47 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  When  mus'  I  go  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  told  Mrs.  Jackson  you  could  come  to-night," 
said  Doctor  Pingle.  "  But  perhaps  you  had  better 
have  your  dinner  first,  with  us,  and  Roger  can  take 
you  over  then  before  it's  very  dark." 

The  dinner  did  not,  however,  come  to  an  end  till 
the  darkness  of  night  had  settled  on  the  country. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Teresa,"  said  Roger,  when 
they  started.  "  We'll  cut  off  a  little,  across  the  fields, 
and  then  we  can  take  the  road." 

All  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  his  fingers  were 
tingling  Teresa's  till  they  burned,  and  were  to  burn 
for  days,  he  led  her  to  her  newer  home  and  quietly 
bade  her  good-by. 


VII 

A   CONTACT  WITH  THE  WORLD 

AWARE,  from  the  doctor's  abstraction,  that  some- 
thing important  was  weighing  on  his  guardian's  mind, 
Roger  spent  two  or  three  days  in  wondering  what  he 
should  prepare  himself  to  expect.  He  thought  at  first 
Doctor  Pingle's  long  spell  of  meditation  might  mean 
the  'cello,  which  had  been  nearly  as  good  as  promised. 
He  soon  made  up  his  mind,  however,  that  a  cogitation 
extending  over  a  day  indicated  something  of  far 
greater  moment  than  merely  the  purchase  of  an  instru- 
ment. In  this  he  was  right. 

"  Roger,"  said  the  man,  when  at  length  he  had  come 
to  his  own  conclusions,  "  have  you  thought  at  all  about 
what  you  wish  to  be  in  the  years  to  come, — what  line 
or  profession  you  desire  to  follow?" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  a  doctor  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  wish  you  to  be  any- 
thing against  your  own  inclination.  I  wish  to  know 
what  you  yourself  prefer." 

"  Could  I  make  any  money — I  mean  a  decent  living 
— out  of  music?" 

"  That's  the  point,"  the  doctor  replied,  rubbing  his 
glasses,  squinting  his  eyes  as  he  did  so,  and  then 
regarding  his  youthful  companion  soberly,  over  the 
4  49 


THE    INEVITABLE 


tops  of  the  lenses.  "  I  must  try  so  to  equip  you  that 
you  can  make  even  a  little  more  than  a  living.  And 
yet — if  you  love  the  music  as  I  did  at  about  your 

age Well,  is  music  what  you  positively  want? 

Are  you  willing  to  work  hard,  and  perhaps  suffer,  and 
undergo  discouragement,  for  the  sake  of  attaining 
something  at  the  last?" 

"  I  would  do  almost  anything,  and  work  day  and 
night,  if  you  told  me  I  could  expect  to  succeed  some 
day — if  it  wouldn't  be  a  silly  thing  to  try  to  make  a 
living  out  of  when  the  studying  was  over,"  said  the 
boy,  earnestly.  "  Do  you  think  I  have  got  enough 
talent?" 

"  More  than  half  the  talent  in  the  world  is  simply 
steadfast  purpose,  Roger.  I  think  you  have  some 
talent, — enough  to  encourage,  if  you  will  put  yourself 
to  the  task  of  studying  hard  and  working." 

It  was  a  kindly,  wrinkled  face  he  presented  to  the 
boy,  as  he  looked  across  the  table  at  the  youthful 
countenance,  so  serious  and  handsome.  Roger  looked 
at  him  affectionately,  frankly  admiring  the  great  shock 
of  iron-gray  hair,  the  deep-blue  eyes,  the  homely, 
intelligent  countenance.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Doctor 
Pingle  regarded  Roger  as  a  genius  in  music,  possess- 
ing far  greater  possibilities  than  ever  he  himself  had 
known,  and  capable  of  attaining  an  eminence  of  which 
he  could  some  day  be  proud.  He  had  never,  however, 


A    CONTACT    WITH    THE   WORLD 

encouraged    self-conceit    nor    over-confidence    in    his 
young  companion. 

"  Music  could  make  me  work  myself  to  death,"  said 
the  boy,  earnestly. 

The  doctor  believed  it.  Indeed,  his  heart  was  set 
on  Roger's  choice  of  music  for  his  manhood's  career. 
He  had  simply  desired  this  confirmation  before  he 
should  counsel  anything  calculated  to  make  his  charge 
believe  the  road  was  to  be  easily  won.  All  that  had 
formerly  been  denied  himself,  yea,  more  than  this,  he 
had  determined  should  fall  to  the  lot  of  this  tractable, 
lovable  boy,  so  far  as  in  him  lay  the  powers  of  be- 
stowal, provided  always  Roger  positively  longed  for 
and  merited  the  opportunities. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  have  been  thinking 
and  trying  to  plan  the  next  best  step.  It  is  a  long 
time  since  I  got  you  as  far  as  my  own  poor  knowledge 
goes,  yet  I  hope  your  years  of  study  with  me  will 
prove  of  some  little  value  at  the  school." 

"The  school?" 

"  Yes,  the  conservatory.  I  think  you  had  better  go 
to  St.  Louis,  Roger,  right  away.  There  is  no  time  to 
waste,  now  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind." 

"  Oh,  won't  that  be  great !"  cried  the  boy,  joyfully. 

"  No,  not  great,  lad,  but  it's  the  next  good  step. 
New  York  would  not  be  wise,  just  yet — not  till  we've 
tried  something  nearer  first." 

Si 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  When  are  we  going  ?"  Roger  asked  him,  eagerly. 

"  I  think  you  can  start  at  once,  to-morrow.  You 
might  as  well  take  advantage  of  the  summer  course. 
The  class  is  not  so  large,  but  perhaps  you  will  receive 
even  more  attention  for  that  reason.  Yes,  I  think  you 
could  manage  to  start  to-morrow." 

"  But,  aren't  you  going  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  No,  no.  I  shall  stay  here  and  keep  things 
going.  There  is  no  one  who  would  look  after  my  few 
little  houses  as  I  want  it  done.  That's  all  right.  You 
go  ahead.  It  isn't  far.  You  can  write  often,  and  later 
on — we'll  see." 

Roger's  enthusiasm  somewhat  fell.  "  I  am  sorry 
we  aren't  going  together,"  he  said. 

But  youth  and  ambition  are  always  self-centred. 
Presently  Roger  was  making  his  preparations,  and 
chatting  of  wonderful  hopes,  of  life  in  the  city,  and  of 
coming  home  in  vacations,  and  of  working  like  a  horse. 
Therefore  he  missed  the  look  of  yearning  in  the  doc- 
tor's eyes,  and  failed  to  realize  how  all  of  his  gladness 
could  make  more  sore  a  heart  that  was  hurt  at  the 
thought  of  this,  the  first  parting  between  them. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  went,  however,  Roger  was 
saddened  and  loving  and  thoughtful  enough,  and  the 
man  knew  that  none  of  his  parent  affections,  none  of 
his  worries,  none  of  his  cares  or  sacrifices,  had  been 
in  vain. 

52 


A    CONTACT    WITH    THE   WORLD 

"  God  bless  you,  lad,"  he  said.  "  Keep  me  proud  of 
you  always." 

Then  the  long  summer  weeks  began  to  slip  away, 
and  there,  in  his  lonely  little  home,  Doctor  Pingle  lis- 
tened and  listened,  when  he  waked  in  the  night,  as  so 
often  he  had  done,  as  if  to  make  himself  sure  that  his 
boy  was  breathing  naturally,  and  that  all  was  well. 

Roger's  letters  came  regularly,  long  ones  at  first, 
that  told  much  of  the  new  life  into  which  he  had 
plunged.  There  were  boyish  descriptions  of  classmates 
and  teachers,  and  outbursts  of  youthful  impatience  at 
the  rudimentary  work  at  which  they  kept  him  so  long. 
Later  the  letters  told  less  and  less  of  school,  acquaint- 
ances, and  work.  They  were  all  about  the  little  home 
he  had  left  behind  him.  They  were  "  made-up"  letters, 
that  to  Doctor  Pingle  revealed  some  state  of  unhappi- 
ness  which  the  boy  would  fain  conceal. 

Youth,  the  doctor  well  knew,  is  prone  to  disappoint- 
ments. He  told  himself  Roger  had  come  at  last  in 
contact  with  the  toil  and  disheartening  failures  that 
abound  on  the  path  of  any  serious  journey  towards 
the  far-away  peaks  of  attainment.  This  was  a  stage 
he  had  quite  expected,  but  Roger  would  win  through 
it,  for  the  mettle  was  in  him.  Yet  with  all  his  explana- 
tions to  himself  he  was  not  wholly  satisfied,  nor  freed 
from  haunting  worry. 

The  second  month  since  Roger's  departure  had 
53 


THE    INEVITABLE 


gone,  the  third  was  well  on  its  way,  when  one  even- 
ing Doctor  Pingle  observed  a  tall,  dusty  figure  come 
limping  along  the  road,  carrying  something  which 
resembled  the  case  of  a  violin.  He  squinted  his 
eyes  and  looked.  Then  he  rubbed  at  his  glasses,  put 
them  on,  and  peered  intently  over  the  rims  at  the 
figure. 

"Why,  Roger!"  he  said  aloud,  to  himself. 

He  arose  from  his  seat  on  the  porch  and  hastened 
down  to  the  gate,  in  time  to  meet  the  boy  as  he  halted 
there  to  enter. 

It  was  Roger,  indeed,  but  such  a  Roger  as  the  doc- 
tor had  never  seen  before.  His  face  was  wan.  His 
weariness  showed  in  his  eyes.  He  was  altered,  for 
manhood  had  come  upon  him  prematurely.  His  dark, 
somewhat  melancholy  eyes  seemed  deeper  set  in  his 
head.  Study  had  added  to  the  intellectuality  of  his 
face,  and  cares  had  obliterated  the  softness  of  boy- 
hood. He  smiled  as  the  doctor  came  to  meet  him, 
but  it  was  not  a  bright  nor  a  happy  expression. 

"  I  have  come  home,"  he  said,  as  he  limped  into  the 
garden. 

"  Boy,  boy,"  said  the  doctor,  brokenly,  "  what's  the 
— trouble?  You  haven't  walked?" 

"  Yes,  I've  walked.    It  only  took  two  days." 

"  Two  days !"  echoed  the  man,  as  he  took  the  limp- 
ing boy  by  the  arm  and  helped  him  up  to  the  porch. 

54 


"  Where  did  you  sleep  ?  Where  did  you  get  anything 
to  eat?" 

"  I  didn't  want  to  sleep.  I  wanted  to  get — home," 
said  Roger,  blinking  his  eyes  swiftly  and  biting  his 
lip.  "  I  wouldn't  ask  the — white  people  for  anything 
to  eat,  and  I  couldn't  ask  the  negroes." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  porch  wearily.  Doc- 
tor Pingle  stared  at  him  in  silence,  his  face  twitching 
as  he  looked  upon  the  boy.  He  could  not  speak,  for 
the  moment. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,"  Roger  went  on, 
almost  hotly.  "  They  called  me  a  nigger.  The  stu- 
dents insulted  me — all  the  time.  The  teachers  hated 
to  teach  me — all  but  one.  He  bore  with  me  because 
I  played  better  than  all  the  others.  I  did!  I  did! 
he  said  so.  He  cared  more  for  that  than  he  did  for — 
my  color.  I  tried  to  stand  it — not  to  care ;  but  shame, 
humiliation — every  day — hurt  so  I  couldn't.  They 
thought  of  new  ways  to  insult  me  all  the  time.  I  knew 
I  would  kill  somebody  soon.  If  I  weren't  an  Indian 
I  wouldn't  care.  So — I  came  home."  He  refused  to 
cry,  but  the  lumps  were  in  his  throat. 

"  Come  in,  Roger,  come  in,"  said  Doctor  Pingle, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  gently 
urging  him  to  rise.  "  Come  in  and  let  me  get  you 
something  to  eat." 

"  You  don't  know  how  they  can  torture  a  man  by 
55 


THE    INEVITABLE 


calling  him  a  nigger  and  treating  him  like  a  cur," 
Roger  went  on,  resolutely.  "  I  read  of  a  man  who 
had  a  disease  that  turned  him  black.  And  his  wife 
left  him,  because  he  was  hounded  so  for  a  nigger.  He 
had  to  go  and  join  the  negroes — to  live  in  peace.  It's 
no  use.  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  endure  it.  I  can  come 
home  to  you,  but  where  else  could  I  go — except  to  the 
negroes?  Some  day  I  shall  have  to  go  with  them.  I 
shall  have  to  give  up  the  music — and  everything — 
and  go  with  them,  unless  I  die.  It's  Indian  that's  in 
me, — that's  why  it  hurts." 

He  suddenly  put  up  his  dusty  sleeve  against  the 
post  of  the  porch,  and  hid  his  face  in  the  folds  at  his 
elbow.  He  made  no  sound,  but  his  body  was  shaken 
by  convulsions  before  he  could  gain  the  mastery  over 
weariness  and  his  anguish. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  lad,  and  have  something  to  eat," 
the  doctor  repeated.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you  home." 

Roger  said  nothing  further.  His  outburst  was  fin- 
ished. The  doctor  knew  there  was  much  more  he  could 
have  told,  but  he  led  him  thoughtfully  away  from  the 
topic  that  plunged  the  boy  in  such  utter  depths  of 
humiliation.  What  Roger  had  said  already  had  re- 
vealed to  him  such  possibilities  of  mental  suffering 
as  he  had  never  dreamed  the  lad  possessed. 

Therefore,  as  the  boy  was  finally  eating,  in  his 
quiet,  moderate  manner,  which  belied  his  famished 

56 


A    CONTACT    WITH    THE    WORLD 

condition,  Doctor  Pingle  rubbed  and  rubbed  at  his 
glasses,  looked  at  his  silent  companion  intently,  and 
pondered  over  something  which  had  come  in  his 
thoughts  as  the  boy's  bitter  sentence  on  himself  and 
the  final  outcome  of  his  fate  was  being  pronounced. 

"  Now,  then,  lad,  take  a  bath  and  go  to  bed,"  he 
said,  when  Roger  had  finished  his  meal.  "  Just  pre- 
tend you  never  went  away  from  home  at  all.  In  the 
morning  we'll  talk,  if  you  wish,  for  there  may  be  plans 
that  will  make  us  happy  yet." 

"  I  was  learning — some.  I  can  play  a  little  better 
than  before  I  went,"  said  Roger,  limping  over  to  the 
case  that  held  his  violin.  "  I  know  I  didn't  waste  my 
time,  nor  any  money." 

The  doctor  would  not  have  had  the  heart  to  ask 
him  to  play  to-night,  but  he  saw  with  pleasure  that 
Roger  wanted  to  take  the  instrument  in  his  hands. 

The  young  fellow  tucked  it  .lovingly  beneath  his 
chin,  and  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings  with  the 
touch  of  a  master.  He  began  to  play.  The  instru- 
ment was  soon  expressing  something  of  ineffable  sad- 
ness, the  purity  of  which  was  remarkable.  It  was  a 
mood  of  hopeless  grief  that  sounded  from  the  touch 
of  the  bow.  Its  sweetness  only  made  its  depths  of  woe 
the  more  poignant. 

Doctor  Pingle  closed  his  eyes.  His  head  sank  on 
his  breast  as  he  listened.  What  he  heard  was  un- 

57 


THE    INEVITABLE 


familiar.  He  presently  knew  it  was  Roger's  own  crea- 
tion; that,  indeed,  it  told  of  his  heart's  despair  and 
sorrow.  That  it  came  straight  from  a  soul  that  yearned 
for  achievement,  that  felt  its  own  infinite  power,  but 
which  was  crying  out  in  the  refinement  of  its  pain, 
was  all  too  palpable.  The  man  could  not  but  suffer 
with  the  boy.  He  was  all  unstrung.  The  music  so 
pleaded  for  its  maker;  it  so  convinced  that  he  could 
rise  to  greatness.  And  yet  it  was  all  so  sad,  so 
patiently,  hopelessly  sad. 

The  end  was  never  reached.  Unable  to  go  on  with 
it,  weary  and  affected  as  he  was,  Roger  put  the  instru- 
ment down  on  the  table  and  looked  across  at  the  man 
who  had  been  father,  mother,  and  all  to  him  that  he 
had  ever  had.  The  lisping  of  childhood  arose  to  his 
lips. 

"  Good-night,  dosser,"  he  said,  and  he  limped  off  to 
his  room. 

"  Good-night,  laddie,  good-night,"  said  the  doctor, 
and,  staring  at  the  door  where  the  boy  had  gone,  he 
presently  began  to  polish  his  glasses  with  all  his 
might. 

He  sat  at  the  table  till  after  twelve,  figuring  sums  on 
a  bit  of  paper  with  his  pencil. 

In  the  morning  he  was  brisk  and  filled  with  enthusi- 
asm. 

"  Roger,"  he  said,  "  in  Germany  nobody  cares  what 
58 


A    CONTACT    WITH    THE    WORLD 

a  man  may  be,  so  long  as  he  knows  music,  or  wants 
to  know  it.  You  would  have  to  go  there  to  finish  off, 
no  matter  where  else  we  had  you  study.  We  can  do 
it — do  it  quite  comfortably.  Off  you  go  to  Leipsic, 
in  a  week." 

The  comfortable  way  in  which  he  did  it  was  to  sell 
nearly  all  of  his  houses. 


II 

GENEVRA 


I 

A    SOCIAL   AMBITION 


INASMUCH  as  music  is  the  voice  of  gladness,  God 
created  the  universe  with  one  mighty  anthem  of  joy. 

There  is  warmth  and  breath  and  life  itself  in 
melody. 

It  was  music,  at  Leipsic,  music  that  knitted  new 
gladness  in  his  nature,  music  that  rang  in  his  soul, 
that  fashioned  Roger  Gordon  in  a  mould  of  largeness 
and  manhood.  He  had  spent  his  years  of  study  with 
infinite  care  and  with  infinite  pleasure.  He  had  known 
a  way  to  love  his  work  for  every  new  day  in  the 
calendar. 

Yet  genuine  growth  is  never  achieved  without  its 
pangs.  Roger  had  suffered  discouragements  and  sea- 
sons of  doubt  as  poignant  as  travails  of  motherhood. 
Afraid  at  times  of  self-satisfaction,  he  had  sounded  the 
depths  of  an  earnest  man's  despair.  Nevertheless, 
professors  and  fellow-students  had  watched  his 
growth  with  a  pride  too  great  for  envy,  and,  when 
at  length  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  conservatory  days, 
had  seen  him  depart  with  mingled  hopes  and  regrets. 

Roger  was  glad,  however,  to  have  finished.  No 
man  may  gauge  his  strength  until  he  shall  try  to  make 
his  way  alone.  Not  that  Roger  had  neglected  to  stand 

63 


THE    INEVITABLE 


by  himself  at  the  school.  He  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
completed  not  a  little  of  a  most  ambitious  composition 
at  Leipsic,  but  now  he  rejoiced  to  think  he  had  come 
to  the  end  of  the  student's  road  and  that  henceforth 
he  should  go  forward  as  a  musical  frontiersman,  seek- 
ing empires  untrammelled,  where  none  but  the  gods 
themselves  might  go  before  to  blaze  the  way. 

When  he  left  the  school  he  had  come  to  London. 
Not  the  greatness  and  opportunities  of  England's 
capital  alone  had  served  to  entice  him  from  the  Con- 
tinent; he  still  fostered  memories  and  hopes,  caught 
securely  to  his  heart  one  sweet,  tragic  day,  long  be- 
fore, in  America. 

At  the  time  when  he  came,  society  had  once  more 
donned  the  motley.  The  London  season  was  at  its 
height.  Lent  had  faded  away,  leaving  naught  but  its 
own  little  heap  of  ashes,  so  lightly  scattered  by  the 
breath  of  pleasure.  The  weather  itself  had  shaken  off 
the  "  sackcloth"  fog,  and,  as  if  it  revelled  in  its  free- 
dom again,  the  sun  blazed  as  warmly  as  a  wanton. 

In  such  a  spring  a  woman's  fancy  seriously  turns 
to  thoughts  of  prowess,  for  woman,  even  in  the  mere 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  is  not  entirely  bereft  of  ambitions. 
Of  all  the  throng  of  self-coronated  social  queens  of 
London,  there  was  none  more  eager  for  distinction 
than  the  honest,  generous,  and  clever  Lady  Minto- 
Denby,  at  whose  house  all  Knightsbridge  felt  at  home. 

64 


A    SOCIAL   AMBITION 


She  stated  candidly  that  she  sought  for  and  patron- 
ized brains.  No  wonder  that  with  all  the  social  set, 
thus  subtly  flattered,  her  functions  were  extrava- 
gantly popular.  Sadly  enough,  with  her  house  thus 
successfully  filled  with  persons,  who  were  often  con- 
siderable personages,  Lady  Denby  was  afflicted  with 
a  sense  of  disappointment. 

She  had  one  absorbing  passion, — to  create  a  social 
lion.  The  legends  were  legion  of  the  "  cubs"  she  had 
captured,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  a  roaring  creature  ma- 
ture. Nevertheless,  failure  ruthlessly  danced  attend- 
ance on  her  efforts,  and  here  was  a  bright  new  season 
racing  towards  its  finish  and  not  so  much  as  a  prom- 
ising kitten  on  all  her  social  horizon. 

It  was  therefore  with  joy,  not,  however,  uncom- 
mingled  with  doubt,  that  she  welcomed  Algernon  Len- 
nox as  the  first  arriving  guest  on  her  Wednesday  night. 
"  Algy,  the  leo-maniac,"  as  Lord  Minto-Denby  dubbed 
him,  was  still  an  enthusiastic  hunter,  despite  the  fact 
that  no  fewer  than  seven  of  his  alleged  lions,  discov- 
ered and  brought  to  the  gilded  cage  in  Knightsbridge, 
had  proved  to  be  but  lambs  in  borrowed  clothing. 

"  I  say,  I've  got  you  some  one  at  last,"  he  said  this 
evening,  with  a  cheerfulness  undiminished  by  his 
record.  "  He's  a  fine  old  chap  I  knew  at  Leipsic, — 
a  ripping  composer.  He's  the  coming  man.  I  say, 
did  you  ever  see  a  black  tiger  ?" 
5  65 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Lady  Denby  reclined  unperturbed  in  her  chair.  "  I 
believe  I  once  saw  something  of  the  sort,  at  Olympia," 
she  answered,  amused  at  Algy's  certainty.  "  Why  do 
you  ask?" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  black  lion  ?"  her  visitor  inter- 
rogated, by  way  of  replying. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  ever  had  the  pleasure." 

"  Then  you're  going  to  see  one  here  to-night." 

"  A  black  lion  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Do  you  mean  that 
your  new  discovery  is  an  African?  I  hope  not  that, 
dear  Algy." 

"  Certainly  not,"  Lennox  assured  her,  warmly. 
"  He's  an  American  Indian,  descendant  from  the 
daughter  of  a  chief,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  He's 
not  black,  you  know,  but  dark.  He's  the  man,  you 
may  remember,  who  saved  the  life  of  a  funny  little 
chap — Fritz  Bergen — fetched  him  back  to  the  top 
when  he  fell  and  shot  down  on  the  Jungfrau  snow, 
last  summer." 

"  Not  the  man  who  was  lowered  down  with  a  rope 
and  was  dragged  up  the  ice  with  an  almost  ridiculous 
little  musician  in  his  arms?" 

"  Same  chap." 

"  I  could  easily  have  lionized  him  last  autumn  on 
that  alone,"  said  Lady  Denby,  with  interest. 

"  I  think  not,"  Lennox  corrected.  "  He  would  not 
have  permitted  you  to  try." 

66 


A    SOCIAL   AMBITION 


"  Is  he,  then,  so  diffident  ?  He  will  never  succeed 
as  a  lion." 

"  Oh,  he  knows  his  power  with  music.  He  only 
wants  the  opportunity,  to  prove  himself  a  remarkable 
man." 

"  Does  he  also  play  ?" 

"  Rather !  But  his  forte  is  composition.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  asking  him  to  come  here  to-night." 

"  Why,  thank  you,  Algy.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see 
him.  I  only  hope  your  estimate  will  prove  accurate 
at  last.  Ah,  here  is  Genevra." 

The  portieres  parted  and  Lennox  quickly  turned, 
as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  to  greet  a  tall,  superbly 
gowned  young  woman,  with  nugget-gold  hair,  slum- 
brous gray  eyes,  and  shoulders  and  arms  so  white  that 
their  beauty  was  dazzling.  She  flushed  slightly  at 
the  sight  of  Lennox,  to  whom  she  extended  her  hand 
in  a  frank,  girlish  way  that  denoted  her  pleasure. 

The  man,  for  his  part,  became  suddenly  red  and  a 
little  confused.  The  gladness  and  light  in  his  eyes, 
however,  spoke  of  his  joy  before  his  lips  could  frame 
their  greeting. 

"  Genevra,  rejoice,"  said  Lady  Denby.  "  Algy  has 
bagged  us  a  some  one  that  he  hopes  is  his  lion  at  last. 
A  real,  live,  black  social  lion." 

"  Dear  me,  how  sinister  he  sounds,"  said  Genevra. 
"  I  hope  you  will  introduce  him  properly  caged." 

67 


"  It  seems  he  chafes  behind  bars  of  music,"  Lady 
Denby  informed  her.  "  But,  Algy,  what  is  his  precious 
name?" 

"  Leo  vulgaris,  I  should  think,"  ventured  Genevra, 
who  hated  social  celebrities  and  the  process  by  which 
they  were  developed. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Lennox,  loyal  to  the  friend  whose 
way  he  was  paving.  "  He's  not  that  sort,  I  assure 
you.  His  name  is  Herr  Comanche." 

"  Still  formidable,"  was  Genevra's  comment.  "  I 
came  to  tell  you,  Ellen,  that  it's  time  to  expect  your 
menagerie  of  guests." 

"  Let  us  go.  I  am  almost  excited,"  replied  her  lady- 
ship. 

Rising,  she  glanced  for  a  second  in  the  mirror  over 
the  mantel,  and,  patting  her  hair  indifferently,  went 
with  her  friends  to  receive  the  artificial  people  soon 
thronging  through  the  rooms. 


68 


II 

THE   BLACK   LION 


EAGER  to  note  what  her  ladyship's  first  impression 
of  Herr  Comanche  would  be,  Algernon  Lennox  re- 
mained near  at  hand  for  an  hour.  Then,  despite  his 
adroitness,  the  Marchioness  of  Rowley  abducted  him 
playfully,  with  many  a  pat  of  her  perfume-laden  fan, 
and  took  him  away  to  the  ices. 

Lady  Denby,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  much  con- 
cerned lest  her  promised  prize  should  fail  to  appear. 
Genevra  was  bored.  The  two  were  not  a  little  weary 
of  receiving.  The  crowds,  the  chatter,  the  changing 
pictures  of  faces,  bare  shoulders,  white  fronts  of  the 
gentlemen,  the  sparkle  of  gems,  the  parade  of  be- 
dizened age,  contrasted  with  and  out-coloring  youth 
and  beauty, — all  of  this  made  the  brain  rebellious  and 
fretful. 

Genevra  was  beating  her  soft  little  palm  with  her 
fan,  and  wishing  she  dared  to  crack  the  inoffensive 
bauble  on  the  bald,  shining  heads  so  numerous  about 
her.  Thus  engaged  she  was  presently  aware  that 
Ellen  was  tugging  at  her  gown.  She  turned  about, 
in  time  to  catch  the  murmur  of  an  introduction,  and 
the  name: 

"  Herr  Comanche." 

69 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Her  bosom  was  suddenly  heaving ;  her  breath  came 
in  hot,  quick  catches.  Mad  little  thrills  ran  riot  in  her 
being.  Bowing  before  herself  and  Lady  Denby  was  a 
tall  man  with  deep-set,  half-sad  eyes,  as  brown  as  a 
seal,  and  with  a  clean-cut  face  as  dark  as  bronze. 

She  knew  him  instantly — Roger ! 

She  swayed  where  she  stood — so  great  was  the  im- 
pulse to  cry  out  his  name  and  to  run  to  him,  holding 
out  her  two  eager  hands  for  him  to  take.  But  his 
eyes,  aside  from  a  kindling  of  admiration  excited  by 
her  beauty,  betrayed  no  sign  of  recognition. 

A  man  alters  little,  unless  he  grow  a  beard.  A  girl, 
full-blossomed  as  a  rose,  bears  small  resemblance  to 
what  she  was  as  a  bud  still  maidenly  folded. 

Genevra  caught  her  breath  and  her  womanly  con- 
trol of  herself  with  one  impulse.  She  held  forth  her 
hand,  with  at  least  a  show  of  calm. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,  Herr  Comanche,"  she 
murmured. 

"  Herr  Comanche,  your  fame  is  here  before  you," 
said  Lady  Denby,  archly.  "  So  often  fame  is  a  faith- 
ful dog  that  runs  before  to  bark  the  news  of  his 
master's  approach." 

"  I  fear  my  fame  would  prove  to  be  one  of  those 
low-bridge  dogs, — those  Dachshunds,  that  barely  walk 
with  difficulty,"  Roger  answered. 

He  looked  towards  Genevra,  from  whose  face  his 
TO 


THE    BLACK    LION 


eyes  appeared  unable  long  to  swing  away.  She  had 
looked  at  him  steadfastly,  longingly,  and,  blushing 
at  her  conduct,  had  glanced  in  another  direction  at 
last,  to  bend  every  faculty  to  hear  his  voice.  She 
would  not  have  believed,  the  moment  before  he  came, 
that  he  or  any  other  man  could  have  stirred  her  na- 
ture to  depths  that  had  lain  undisturbed  since  that 
day  when  fate  had  crossed  her  path  and  Roger's.  In 
the  crush  she  had  now  been  surrounded  by  six  or 
seven  men,  of  all  ages,  sizes,  and  mental  equipments. 

Lady  Denby  had  found  herself  swiftly  charmed. 

"  Seriously,  Herr  Comanche,  I  hope "  she 

started  to  say,  but  the  sentence  was  never  completed. 

Lady  Burton,  with  Harold  Donegal,  her  previous 
season's  lion, — this  one  from  the  literary  jungle, — 
made  her  way  to  the  hostess  and  introduced  her 
protege.  They  claimed  Lady  Denby 's  attention  for  a 
moment,  at  the  time  that  Lennox  came  back  upon  the 
scene  with  three  fair  ladies,  two  of  whom  desired  to  be 
presented  to  his  friend. 

"  I  say,  old  chap,"  he  said  to  Roger,  "  you're 
deucedly  late  in  coming.  Allow  me  the  pleasure  of 
presenting  you  to  the  Honorable  Miss  Melgand,  Herr 
Comanche,  and  Miss  Effingham.  You  know  Lady 
Fitzhenry  already."  And  he  indicated  the  tallest  and 
most  beautiful  woman  of  the  trio. 

Roger  had,  indeed,  met  Lady  Fitzhenry  on  the  Con- 


THE    INEVITABLE 


tinent,  and  on  several  recent  occasions  in  London. 
She  appeared  to  feel,  in  fact,  the  comradeship  of  an 
old-time  friend. 

"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  sing  something.  We  have 
heard  so  much  about  you,"  said  Miss  Effingham, 
laughing  perfunctorily.  "  Singing  is  so  sweet." 

"  Such  a  crush  to-night !  isn't  it  quite  a  bore  ?" 
said  the  Honorable  Miss  Melgand. 

Lady  Fitzhenry  looked  at  Roger  with  ready  com- 
passion. "  Herr  Comanche,  I  know  the  heat  must 
have  made  you  thirsty,"  she  said,  with  ingenuous 
charm.  "  Won't  you  take  me  to  get  an  ice  ?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Comanche. 

Lady  Fitzhenry — a  Brunhild  in  beauty  and  splen- 
did physique — passed  her  hand  beneath  his  arm  and 
skilfully  guided  him  clear  of  further  entanglements. 

And  yet,  as  they  went,  Genevra  heard  the  lady's 
most  caressful  tones :  "  Dear  sir,  it  is  strange  how 
happy  I  dare  to  be — with  you.  But  beware  of  bring- 
ing too  many  besides  me  to  your  feet." 

What  the  answer  was  Genevra  could  not  hear. 

"  Shall  I  also  beware  of  bringing  myself  to  the  feet 
of  too  many?"  said  Roger,  who  had  always  found 
himself  amused  by  this  unconventional  young  widow. 
"  I  give  you  my  word,  I  have  more  hearts  than  senses. 
There  is  one  heart  here  in  my  eye,  which  beats  when 
I  look  upon  beauty.  Here  in  my  ear  is  another,  that 

72 


THE    BLACK    LION 


leaps  at  the  sound  of  an  exquisite  voice.  A  third  in  my 
brain  responds  to  cleverness.  Pray  what  is  a  man 
to  do?" 

"  Have  another  in  your  pocket-book,"  advised  the 
lady.  "  Be  sure  you  feel  it  throbbing  at  the  clink  of 
gold,  before  you  quite  give  way  to  the  silly  flutterings 
of  sentiment." 

"  I  shall  certainly  get  a  heart  responsive  to  wit," 
he  assured  her,  gayly. 

"  Get  me  an  ice,  please,  first,"  she  suggested. 

Vaguely  stirred  as  to  some  indefinable  emotion, 
Genevra  watched  where  Lady  Fitzhenry  led  Gordon 
away.  To  herself  she  repeated  the  bright  young 
widow's  words,  and  felt  a  flush  rising  to  her  face. 
It  could  hardly  be  possible  that  even  a  premonition 
of  jealousy  was  coming  thus  promptly  upon  her.  But 
what  did  it  mean,  that  speech  of  her  ladyship's  ?  Was 
Roger  pleased?  He  was  smiling;  he  was  chatting 
with  her  gayly. 

Genevra's  first  impulse  had  been  one  of  pure  girlish- 
ness.  She  had  felt  herself  starving  to  run  to  Roger 
and  give  him  both  her  hands,  to  speak  his  name,  to 
tell  him  in  one  of  love's  own  impulses  not  only  who 
she  was,  but  also  of  all  the  gladness  suddenly  come 
upon  her  thus  to  find  him  once  again.  She  fettered 
her  nature,  however,  and  strove  to  crush  the  insidious 
fore-presence  of  suspicion  she  felt  creeping  in  her 

73 


THE    INEVITABLE 


bosom  against  Lady  Fitzhenry.  To  the  men  about 
her  she  turned  a  face  all  smiles,  but  the  soul  had 
stolen  forth  from  her  eyes  to  rove  on  the  errand  of 
wilful  love. 

"  Such  beautiful  weather  we're  having,"  said  one 
of  the  men. 

"  So  I  believe,"  answered  Genevra,  vacantly. 

"  Beautiful  weather  for  golf,"  said  a  fiercely  whis- 
kered lord. 

Roger  and  his  fair  companion  had  disappeared  in 
the  farther  room.  Despite  herself,  Genevra  burned 
with  impatience.  To  her  great  relief  she  presently 
saw  that  Lennox  was  making  his  way  towards  her 
through  the  groups  of  visitors.  Excusing  herself 
from  her  numerous  attendants,  she  advanced  towards 
Algy,  whose  pleasure  at  this  bit  of  kindness  was 
plainly  reflected  on  his  face. 

"  Were  you  coming  for  me  ?"  she  said.  "  I  should 
like  an  ice  very  much." 

"  I  was  hoping  you  might  be  thirsty,"  confessed 
Lennox.  "  How  do  you  like  him  ? — or  don't  you 
know,  as  yet?" 

Her  cheeks  became  suffused  with  color.  She  glanced 
away. 

"  Like  whom  ?"  she  asked,  faintly. 

He  had  noted  the  blush,  but  her  answer  disarmed 
him,  watchful  as  he  was  of  her  every  mood. 

74 


THE    BLACK    LION 


"  I  mean  Herr  Comanche.  Women  like  him  almost 
invariably." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him  first  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  At  the  Leipsic  conservatory,"  said  Lennox.  "  The 
hopes  of  the  school  are  centred  in  his  future.  In 
composition  they  have  had  no  such  man  for  years. 
We  were  all  of  us  jealous  and  envious  of  him  at  first, 
but  he  made  us  like  him,  respect  him,  and  hope  for 
his  fame,  before  he  went." 

She  replied,  with  assumed  indifference,  "  You  seem 
to  like  him  a  great  deal." 

"  Ah,  you  have  never  heard  him  draw  a  bow." 

"  On  what  instrument  does  he  play  ?"  she  ventured 
to  ask.  "  Has  he  a  favorite  instrument  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  plays  on  anything, — violin,  piano,  'cello, — 
and  never  the  same  thing  twice — always  something 
composed  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  He  doesn't 
pretend  to  play,  but  he  can  make  a  'cello  live." 

Her  heart  was  beating  its  wings  in  her  breast. 

"  There  he  is  now — with  Lady  Fitzhenry,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

The  sudden  agitation  of  her  bosom,  the  leap  of 
color  to  her  cheeks,  the  rapid  fanning  of  her  breath, 
were  not  altogether  lost  on  Lennox.  He  chided  him- 
self, however,  for  his  ever  too  ready  conclusions.  He 
found  himself  absurd.  She  had  known  Comanche 
less  than  fifteen  minutes.  The  heat  of  the  rooms  had 

75 


THE    INEVITABLE 


brought  the  red  to  her  face.  She  was  not  even  look- 
ing at  Comanche  now. 

Lennox  glanced  again  where  Roger  was  sitting.  A 
high-browed  poet  was  foisting  himself  upon  Lady 
Fitzhenry's  attentions,  even  as  she  chatted  with 
Gordon. 

"  They  met  on  the  Continent,"  Algy  imparted. 
"  She  likes  him — she  always  has,  and  says  so  frankly. 
They  make  a  handsome  couple,  don't  they?  She 
threatened  once  that  she  would  marry  him  yet." 

"  Marry — whom  ?"  Genevra  asked  him,  faintly. 

"  Comanche,  of  course.  That  rhymster  there  is  a 
silly  ass." 

"  Please  get  me  an  ice,"  his  companion  answered, 
with  apparent  unconcern.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
felt  she  could  not  for  a  moment  longer  endure  Algy's 
gaze,  while  her  heart  was  beating  so  wildly  and  her 
nature  was  all  so  rebellious,  so  bearing  her  whither 
it  listed. 

Half  angered  at  her  wholly  ungovernable  emotions, 
joyous,  nevertheless,  in  all  her  being,  thus  to  see  him 
in  his  splendid  manhood,  she  hardly  dared  to  look 
where  Roger  sat,  when  Lennox  had  left  her  standing 
by  the  door  of  the  palm-cove  alone. 

She  felt  that  all  her  secret  was  advertised  upon  her 
cheeks,  her  lips,  her  very  bosom.  The  light  was 
unendurable.  Slipping  swiftly  out  of  sight,  in  the 

7.6 


THE    BLACK   LION 


tiny  cove  of  palms,  she  sat  upon  a  bench  and  pressed 
her  hands  upon  her  breast  with  all  her  strength. 

From  her  hidden  seat  she  could  see  not  only  Lady 
Fitzhenry,  in  all  her  bold,  compelling  beauty,  but 
Roger  as  well, — and  without  herself  being  seen. 
Therefore  she  gave  herself  over  to  the  luxury  of  a 
long,  satisfying  look.  So  intent  was  her  gaze,  in- 
deed, that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  have  drawn  Gor- 
don's answering  glance.  He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her 
bower  as  if  to  penetrate  the  foliage.  She  sank  back, 
abashed,  blushing,  catching  her  breath  in  a  tiny  gasp 
of  confusion. 

Roger  had  seen  her,  in  truth,  as  she  glided  behind 
the  palms.  His  gaze  was  baffled  now,  however,  by 
the  shadows  in  which  she  was  sitting.  Indeed,  so 
completely  was  she  hidden  that  Lennox,  returning 
with  the  ices,  failed  absolutely  to  discover  where  she 
was.  As  he  looked  the  company  over  he  found  him- 
self abruptly  made  a  captive  once  again  by  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Rowley. 

"  Ah,  you  tempter,"  she  laughed  at  him,  engagingly. 
"  You  knew  of  my  weakness  for  ices.  So  good  of 
you,  really.  Come  and  talk  to  me  here  in  the  corner." 

She  took  his  arm  and  piloted  man  and  ices  to  the 
corner  in  question,  where  she  held  him  prisoner  with 
many  pretty  pranks  of  antiquity. 


77 


Ill 

A  THEME   FOR   A   COMPOSITION 

THERE  were  not  a  few  gentlemen  at  this  evening 
party  who  felt  that  they  could  worship  at  the  shrine 
of  mammon  and  beauty  in  one  transaction  by  idolizing 
Lady  Fitzhenry.  At  the  advent  of  a  group  of  these 
worshippers  Gordon  managed  to  stroll  away. 

With  apparent  unconcern  he  approached  the  green 
retreat  where  Genevra  was  seated.  Obviously  by 
accident,  when  he  halted  to  examine  the  foliage,  he 
suddenly  discovered  Miss  Harberton,  whose  dilated 
eyes  were  turned  upon  him  in  all  their  glory. 

"  What  a  calm  retreat,"  he  said.  "  May  I  not  come 
in?" 

"  If  you — wish,"  answered  Genevra. 

She  moved  along  on  her  bench  as  he  stepped  in 
beside  her.  A  faintness  crept  in  her  veins,  so  ex- 
citedly fluttered  her  heart. 

"  This  is  almost  a  little  handful  of  forest,"  he  said, 
as  he  took  his  place  upon  the  bench.  Then  he  added, 
frankly,  "  I  dared  to  hope  I  should  see  you  again  this 
evening." 

Genevra  had  no  impulses  ready  now  with  prompt- 
ings. She  was  happy,  ecstatically  happy,  thus  to  have 
him  at  her  side,  but  by  the  very  force  of  the  love 

78 


A   THEME   FOR   A    COMPOSITION 

which  could  make  her  so  swiftly  forget  Lady  Fitz- 
henry,  she  was  overwhelmed  to  find  him  so  near. 

"  Oh,  you  are  very  kind  to  say  so/'  she  murmured. 

He  looked  at  her  fairly.  Their  eyes  met  for  a 
second.  Confused,  they  both  looked  down.  Roger, 
however,  was  instantly  gazing  on  her  face,  he  hardly 
knew  why.  He  thought  he  had  never  beheld  a  woman 
so  entirely  beautiful.  Yet  beauty  had  not  so  enthralled 
him  before.  In  tKe  stress  of  some  wonderful  awaken- 
ing, he  failed  to  analyze  the  meaning  of  all  that  was 
happening. 

Long  as  he  had  hoped  that  by  chance  he  might  one 
day  discover  the  little  Genevra  of  his  happiest  dreams, 
he  failed  to  know  her  now,  when  at  last  her  presence 
was  stirring  once  more  all  those  chords  of  love  and 
music  in  his  soul.  A  thousand  times  he  had  asked  him- 
self why  should  not  the  spirit  of  constancy  guide  him 
yet  to  the  side  of  Genevra.  But  inconsistently  the  man 
was  looking  for  a  graceful  child,  with  a  sun-burned, 
slightly  freckled  face,  eyes  fond  and  fearless,  and  a 
maidenly  witchery  of  impulsiveness  which  would 
bring  her  running  to  greet  him.  To-night,  however, 
despite  the  years  and  all,  this  beautiful  girl  beside 
him,  with  her  lips  so  red,  eyes  so  honest,  with  hair  so 
richly  golden,  and  with  arms  and  shoulders  so  white 
and  softly  rounded, — this  girl  made  him  at  last  forget- 
ful of  the  vision  of  Genevra,  so  treasured  in  his  mind. 

79 


THE   INEVITABLE 


"  It  seems  to  me  I  must  have  met  you  somewhere 
before,"  he  said  to  her  after  a  moment.  "  May  we 
not  have  met  at  Lady  Fitzhenry's  ?" 

Excitement  rose  swiftly  in  her  bosom,  but  the  name 
of  Lady  Fitzhenry  somewhat  chilled  it  all. 

"  I  hardly  think  it  likely,"  she  answered. 

Why  did  he  not  know,  by  the  prompting  of  his 
heart,  where  it  was  they  had  met?  She  added, — 

"Have  you  been  in  England  long?" 

"  Several  weeks,"  he  told  her.  Again  he  said,  "  I 
am  almost  positive  we  have  met — somewhere."  Her 
heart  rocked  like  a  tiny  boat  as  he  looked  in  her  eyes. 
But  he  added,  "  Never  mind.  I  only  know  I  feel  that 
we  are  quite  acquainted.  Tell  me,  do  you  think  a 
youthful  impression  could  be  so  sound,  so  substantial, 
that  a  person  when  grown  would  confirm  it?" 

"  I  don't  feel  sure  that  I  understand  your  question," 
she  replied.  Yet  some  intuition  of  her  heart  had 
darted  swiftly  to  a  partial  comprehension  of  what  he 
was  thinking. 

Roger  was  himself  amazed  that  he  should  ever 
arrive  at  his  present  state  of  mind.  A  fear  had  come 
upon  him  suddenly,  in  the  presence  of  Genevra,  that 
his  judgment  of  to-day  might  not  sustain  his  boyhood 
opinions  in  any  degree  whatsoever. 

"  I  mean,"  he  explained,  "  to  ask  for  your  opinion 
on  a  question  that  perhaps  I  could  illustrate  thus :  Just 

80 


A   THEME    FOR    A    COMPOSITION 

suppose  that  a  young  fellow  met  a  little  companion 
when  both  were  scarcely  more  than  children.  Sup- 
pose that  he  liked  this  comrade  intensely,  and  then 
they  were  parted.  For  years  he  entertains  the 
fondest  dreams  of  that  childhood  meeting.  He 
becomes  a  man,  and  still  cleaves  to  his  dreams. 
The  question  now  is,  Would  his  estimate  of  to-day 
sustain  that  intense  liking  of  the  past,  or  would  he 
be  wiser  not  to  put  those  youthful  impressions  to  the 
test?" 

He  had  never  confronted  himself  with  this  problem 
before.  He  had  never  wished  for  anything  but  the 
realization  of  that  boyhood  dream  of  Genevra.  He 
marvelled  at  the  witchery  of  this  girl  who  could  bring 
such  a  question  to  his  lips.  He  felt  himself  a  traitor, 
yet  recklessly  happy  and  thrilling  with  a  madness  of 
heart  and  brain  that  he  dared  not  name. 

Genevra  knew  what  he  meant.  She  feared  he  must 
hear  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart.  But  she  looked 
away  and  answered, — 

"  If  you  had  ever  had  such  a  dream,  Herr  Comanche, 
would  you  fear  to  test  your — your  constancy?" 

"  I  might,"  he  confessed.  "  A  dream  may  be  so 
much  sweeter  than  waking.  A  dream  may  be  too 
precious  to  shatter.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  only  a 
dream — perhaps  a  delusion.  We  make  fools  of  our- 
selves so  readily,  all  through  life." 
6  81 


THE    INEVITABLE 


A  cruel  comprehension  that  he  loved  Lady  Fitz- 
henry,  while  still  he  cherished  a  little  of  the  memory 
of  their  childhood  meeting,  and  so  feared  to  meet 
herself,  lest  he  find  her  changed,  crept  remorselessly 
to  Genevra's  heart. 

She  said,  "  You  mean  that  a  man — or  a  woman — 
would  be  a  fool  to  remain  constant  to  a  fancy  of  child- 
hood,— a  fancy  of  liking  some  one  met  in  childhood?" 

She  was  pale.  In  the  shadows  this  escaped  his 
notice. 

"  It  might  be  so,  and  it  might  not,"  was  his  answer. 
"  It  would  all  so  much  depend  upon " 

"  On  what  he  found  her  to  be — afterwards." 

"  Or  what  she  found  him  to  be,  equally  as  much." 

"  If  one  is  afraid "  she  started  to  say,  but  he 

interrupted. 

"  Not  afraid,  not  so  much  that.  If  any  one  had  a 
beautiful  thing,  as  fragile  as  a  bubble,  which  was  safe 
in  the  dark,  and  which  might  instantly  break  in  the 
full  light  of  day,  would  he  not  keep  it  jealously  away 
from  all  the  light  ?  I  only  asked  you  if  a  test  would  be 
wise?" 

"  If  a  man  so  worshipped  a  thing  in  the  dark,"  she 
said,  with  suppressed  emotion,  "  if  he  feared  to  face 
the  light  of  day  with  his  judgment  of  its  worth,  by 
all  means  he  would  do  well  to  hold  to  his  fancy, — 
making  a  fool  of  himself  possibly." 


A    THEME   FOR   A    COMPOSITION 

She  had  spoken  with  intensity. 

"  A  verdict  is  always  harsh,"  he  said.  "  But  what 
if  one  who  has  dreamed,  as  we  say,  is  now  awake — 
has  found  something  else  so  beautiful  that  he  fears  to 
compare  his  dream — to  test  his  dream  under  condi- 
tions which,  by  comparisons,  would  render  the  test 
so  crucial?" 

Genevra  knew  what  he  meant  by  this.  She  looked 
up  abruptly  and  beheld  Lady  Fitzhenry,  boldly  beau- 
tiful, superb,  magnetic,  coming  towards  the  palm.  She 
was  looking  for  Roger,  and  Roger  had  glanced  ex- 
citedly, at  once,  in  her  ladyship's  direction. 

"  What  a  beautiful  woman  she  is,"  said  Genevra, 
as  if  spontaneously.  "  Have  you  known  her  long?" 

"  I  knew  her  quite  well  on  the  Continent,"  Roger 
replied.  "  She  is  exceptionally — kind.  Yes,  I  have 
known  her  some  time."  He  paused  for  a  moment  and 
then  resumed:  "But  our  subject  is  being  neglected. 
You  have  not  yet  replied  to  my  question.  Would  a 
man,  awake,  as  I  said,  be  wise  to  test  his  boyhood's 
dream  by  a  new — perhaps  a  dangerous — standard?" 

"  If  a  man  has  found  a  woman  more  beautiful  than 
his  dream,"  she  answered,  coldly,  "  advice  would  be 
wasted  upon  him.  I  trust  I  have  served  to  amuse 
you,  Herr  Comanche."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  added,  "  Do  you  know,  I  have  always  wished 
to  give  a  musician  a  theme  for  a  great  composition." 

83 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  at  a  loss  to  answer  her 
otherwise. 

"  I  must  go  and  find  Ellen — Lady  Denby,"  she  said. 

"But  your  theme?" 

As  she  moved  away  she  said,  coldly, — "  Your 
dream  might  have  suggested  the  theme,  by  chance, — 
Constancy." 

He  looked  at  her  with  half-sad  eyes.  "  My  dream 
did  suggest  a  theme,  but  not  that  one,  quite." 

"  Indeed  ?    May  I  ask  you — what  ?" 

He  still  looked  in  her  eyes  as  he  told  her,  gravely, — 

"  It  is  Paradise  Lost." 

They  were  swept  apart  on  emerging  from  behind 
their  sheltered  nook,  for  a  score  of  women,  old  and 
young,  with  a  hint  in  their  ears  that  Herr  Comanche 
was  a  coming  man,  were  lion-hunting  all  about  the 
house. 

Yet  once  again,  as  he  found  her  leaving,  Roger 
came  to  the  side  of  Genevra. 

"  I  dare  to  hope  I  shall  see  you  again,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  ask  your  pardon  for  having  failed  to  catch  your 
name  when  I  was  first  presented." 

"  Perhaps  we  may  meet  again,"  she  said.  "  My 
name  is  Miss  Harberton." 

"  Miss  Harberton  ?"  he  echoed,  looking  upon  her 
face  with  glad  and  eagerly  searching  eyes.  "  Not 
Genevra — not  Miss  Genevra  Harberton — at  last?" 

84 


A    THEME    FOR   A    COMPOSITION 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Gordon,  Genevra,"  she  said,  in  a  strange 
calm.  "  Good-night."  And,  bowing  ever  so  slightly, 
she  was  gone. 

"  Oh,  Herr  Comanche,  not  going  ?"  cried  the  voice 
of  Lady  Denby.  She  was  close  at  his  side,  and  smiling, 
in  her  genuine  friendship.  "  You  will  come  again, 
soon?  You  will  come  and  play,  when  the  house  isn't 
full  of  people?  You  will  do  that,  please?  Come 
to-morrow,  at  three.  I  have  something  to  suggest 
that  I  hope  you  will  like." 


IV 

A   FRIEND    COMES   HOME 


AMAZED  thus  to  have  found  her,  baffled  when  he 
tried  to  interpret  her  words  and  her  attitude,  Roger 
walked  away  from  Lady  Minto-Denby's  with  one 
burning  thought  in  his  brain, — Genevra. 

What  had  he  said  of  that  dream  of  the  past  ?  What 
'had  she  answered,  half  tauntingly,  of  his  fear  to  test 
his  constancy?  Ay,  constancy  indeed!  She  had  used 
that  word  with  such  significance.  He  could  not,  for 
all  his  cudgelling,  make  his  memory  give  up  his  own 
speech, — that  something  he  had  said  of  a  man  making 
a  fool  of  himself,  in  some  way  or  other,  by  clinging 
to  a  childish  fancy. 

Genevra!  How  she  had  blossomed!  How  beauti- 
ful she  was !  It  was  really  Genevra !  No  wonder  he 
had  thought  they  must  have  met  before ! 

But  he  should  have  known — his  heart  should  have 
told  him — who  she  was!  What  a  moment  he  had 
missed !  Her  loveliness  had  blinded  his  eyes  and  over- 
wrought the  beating  of  his  heart.  She  had  caused 
his  nature  so  to  out-thrill  itself  that  what  he  felt  he 
had  scarcely  recognized  for  the  new-sprung  love  it 
was.  She  had  looked  in  his  eyes  and  stormed  the  cita- 
del where  so  long  Genevra — his  little  Genevra — had 

86 


A    FRIEND    COMES    HOME 

ruled  alone.  Inconstancy?  Yes,  forgetfulness  and 
almost  a  reckless  new  rapture  had  claimed  him,  even 
while  he  fought  to  be  constant  to  a  dream.  But — God 
of  joy! — it  was  she!  She! — Genevra  herself!  This 
was  constancy  gilded  with  maturer  love! 

He  thought  of  this  suddenly,  and  then  he  thought 
of  one  thing  more:  She  knew  nothing  at  all  of  his 
state  of  mind.  Therefore,  what  did  she  think?  At 
this  he  felt  he  must  rush  incontinently  back  to  Lady 
Denby's  house,  secure  the  direction  to  Genevra's 
home,  seek  her  out  and  tell  her — swiftly,  unmistak- 
ably— that  it  was  she — she  who  had  tempted  him, 
tested  his  constancy — won  him  away  in  one  fleeting 
moment  from  his  boyhood's  love  to  this,  his  man- 
hood's passion ! 

But  would  she  care  to  hear  such  a  story?  Was  she 
loyal  herself  to  that  childish  fervor — that  kiss  in  the 
forest?  He  had  found  her  beautiful — a  target  for 
love  and  glances  of  endless  desire.  As  he  knew  how 
many  roses  grow  beside  the  road,  hotly  blushing  to 
be  plucked,  so  he  knew  of  the  throng  of  eager  gar- 
nerers,  hastening  headlong  forever  to  gather  the  fair- 
est of  the  blossoms.  Surrounded  as  she  was,  by  scores 
of  men,  some  of  them  worthy  and  as  noble  as  men 
are  moulded,  how  should  she  cleave  to  that  dream  of 
an  hour,  that  love  of  a  fleet,  mocking  moment? 

But  he  had  found  her.  His  heart  leaped  at  that 
87 


THE    INEVITABLE 


exultantly,  heedless  of  the  doubts,  the  worries,  in  his 
brain.  He  would  see  her  again.  He  must  see  her, 
speak  to  her,  tell  her  of  what  she  had  done,  and  what 
she  had  been  to  him  year  after  year.  All  of  his 
flippancies  with  Lady  Fitzhenry  were  forgotten.  He 
had  no  thought  for  those  many  hearts  he  had  men- 
tioned, responsive  to  beauty,  to  caressful  voices,  to 
wit.  The  real  heart  within  him,  pealing  like  the  bell 
of  his  very  soul,  responded  to  Genevra,  whatsoever 
she  was.  He  was  filled  with  the  vast  music  of  love, 
so  rushing,  so  world-filling  that  the  motif  of  doubt 
and  anxiety  struggled  but  faintly  through  the  chords 
of  the  great  jubilation. 

How  he  reached  his  rooms  Roger  never  stopped  to 
think.  He  lived  in  a  quaint  old  street,  in  a  quainter 
old  house,  the  address  of  which  was  Mayfair,  West. 
But  Mayfair  the  haughty  had  drawn  itself  a  little 
aloof,  to  a  quarter  more  restricted,  though  much  hum- 
ble neighborhood  thereabouts  alluded  to  itself  as  part 
and  parcel  of  this  favored  portion  of  London  town. 

At  the  top  of  the  half  flight  of  stairs  leading  from 
the  hall  was  a  bijou  conservatory,  containing  a  foun- 
tain, a  seat,  and  benches  for  potted  plants.  As  he 
mounted  the  stairs,  Roger  was  waked  from  his  revery 
by  the  sight  of  a  strange  figure,  rising  at  his  approach 
from  the  seat  near  the  fountain.  It  was  a  man,  who 
had  waited  his  coming.  He  was  as  weird  a  little  cari- 


A    FRIEND    COMES    HOME 

cature  on  the  human  architectural  plan  as  one  could 
well  conceive.  His  legs  were  amazingly  long  and  thin 
for  a  man  so  small.  He  seemed  to  be  bifurcated  nearly 
to  his  chest.  Then  his  body  rounded  out  like  a  fat 
little  pod,  to  which  long  slender  arms  were  attached 
loosely.  To  complete  his  oddities,  his  neck  was  long, 
his  head  was  almost  perfectly  round,  and  he  had  no 
hair.  Not  only  did  he  arise  the  moment  Roger  ap- 
peared, but  he  smile'd  till  his  flat  little  nose  seemed 
threatened  with  elimination  altogether,  so  tight  down 
to  his  face  was  it  drawn  by  this  look  of  pleasure. 

He  ran  down  the  steps  to  meet  his  friend,  with  an 
enthusiasm  akin  to  that  so  frequently  exhibited  in  a 
faithful  animal.  He  gripped  Gordon  gladly  by  the 
hand,  running  back  up  to  the  landing.  Down  he  came 
again,  and  up  he  hastened  as  before,  laughing  all  the 
while  almost  hysterically,  almost  without  sound,  but 
yet  so  heartily  as  not  to  be  able  to  speak  a  word. 

"Well,  well,  Fritz,  how  do  you  come  to  be  here?" 
said  Roger.  "  I  thought  you  were  comfortably  fixed 
with  Seidle." 

Fritz  still  ran  up  and  down  the  stairs,  panting  with 
gladness,  till  the  top  was  reached  and  Roger  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  for  the  keys  to  His  rooms. 

"  Oh,  have  I  found  you  at  last  once  more  ?"  said  the 
visitor,  in  German.  "  It  is  you ;  it  is  you !" 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  settled,  you  Colossus," 
89 


THE    INEVITABLE 


said  Roger,  affectionately.    "  Why  did  you  come  away 
from  Seidle?" 

"  Shall  I  go  away  ?"  asked  Fritz,  inclining  his  head 
to  one  side  and  looking  at  his  friend  with  wistful 
eyes.  "  I  have  no  home.  You  are  my  home.  I  have 
no  other  home  than  you." 

"  You're  a  humbug,"  Roger  told  him,  gently. 
"  Wouldn't  Seidle  keep  you,  at  his  garden  ?" 

"  When  they  see  me,  they  laugh,"  said  Fritz,  with 
woe  upon  his  face.  "  I  am  such  a  joke  at  Seidle's  I 
don't  like  it  so  much,  and  when  I  don't  like  it,  I  don't 
play  so  good.  When  I  don't  play  so  good,  they  tell 
me,  '  Fritz,  go  home  and  learn  the  clarionet.'  So  I 
have  come  home." 

He  began  to  cry,  even  as  he  laughed  and  capered 
about  to  show  his  joy.  Roger  pushed  open  the  door 
and  bade  him  enter. 

"  Where  is  your  clarionet  ?"  he  said. 

Fritz  ran  down  again  to  the  small  conservatory  and 
bounded  back  up  the  stairs  with  the  bag  which  held 
his  worldly  possessions.  It  was  not  a  large  recepta- 
cle. He  opened  it  eagerly  and  brought  forth  the  vari- 
ous sections  of  the  instrument  in  question,  as  pleased 
as  a  child  to  think  Roger  had  asked  him  where  it  was 

"  Don't  blow  it  now,  Colossus,"  Gordon  cautioned 
"  Perhaps  I  can  get  you  a  place  in  one  of  the  music- 
hall  orchestras." 

90 


A   FRIEND    COMES    HOME 

Fritz  appeared  not  to  have  heard.  He  stood  with 
his  clarionet  in  his  hand  as  he  stared  about  the  room 
hungrily.  His  eyes  expanded  at  the  sight  of  a  'cello, 
a  violin,  a  piano,  and  sheets  upon  sheets  of  music,  not 
printed,  but  scored  in  pencil  dots  and  dashes,  in  strokes 
that  denoted  the  frenzy  of  a  hand  which  had  raced  to 
keep  pace  with  a  brain  through  which  very  comets  of 
musical  thought  had  scorched  their  way. 

"  Not  finished?"  he  said.    "  Not  yet?" 

Roger  stood  with  his  hand  on  a  chair.  He  was  so 
completely  absorbed,  as  his  half-sad  eyes  gazed  blankly 
into  space,  for  the  moment,  that  nothing  of  what  his 
companion  had  said  had  made  itself  heard. 

"  Fritz,"  he  presently  inquired,  "  are  you  tired  ? 
Can  you  write  a  little  to-night  ?" 

"  In  my  grave  I  could  write  for  you,"  said  Fritz, 
dropping  his  instrument  back  in  the  bag  precipitately. 
"  Oh,  the  great  labor !  I  have  come  home  where  is 
the  great  labor." 

He  went  by  instinct  to  the  blank  score  sheets  and 
pencils,  even  as  Roger  threw  aside  his  hat  and  took 
up  his  violin.  He  laid  the  bow  upon  the  strings  with- 
out so  much  as  a  preliminary  touch  to  test  their  tune- 
fulness. But  for  fully  a  minute  he  stood  motionless. 
Fritz  sat  at  the  table,  his  eyes  intent  on  Gordon's  face. 

Then  the  theme  commenced.  It  was  played  so  low 
that  an  ear  outside  the  door  would  have  failed  to 

91 


THE    INEVITABLE 


catch  the  notes  in  continuity.  But  Fritz  caught  them, 
every  one,  and  his  hand  travelled  twitchingly  across 
the  paper,  as  the  pencil  sped  and  left  its  track  of  fairy 
footsteps  behind  it. 

Now  slow,  now  swift,  was  the  measure  of  the 
thought  which  the  violin  was  voicing,  but  on  it  went, 
and  the  clock  in  a  neighboring  steeple  tolled  for  one, 
and  then  for  two. 

When  at  length  he  halted,  to  think  and  to  plan, 
Roger  stood  there  still  with  the  instrument  held  be- 
neath his  chin.  The  light  fell  full  upon  his  dark, 
earnest  face,  and  darker  still  was  its  changed  reflec- 
tion from  the  polished  red  surface  of  the  violin.  He 
remained  thus  silent  minute  after  minute.  Then  his 
gaze  wandered  slowly  to  Fritz.  Wearied  as  he  was, 
beyond  endurance,  the  comical  little  fellow's  head  had 
fallen  forward  upon  the  sheets.  Fritz  was  asleep. 
Faithfully  recording,  up  to  the  last  note,  he  had  dotted 
the  last  unfinished  phrase  on  the  paper  with  that  skill 
which  had  made  Roger  to  marvel  so  often,  but  nature 
had  claimed  him  when  the  spell  was  broken. 

Roger  laid  aside  his  instrument.  He  looked  at 
Fritz  fondly.  Now  that  the  face  was  calm,  it  revealed 
the  lines  of  care  and  age.  That  Colossus  was  old 
had  never  before  occurred  to  Roger.  While  class  after 
class  of  students  had  graduated  as  "  Bachelors"  and 
"  Masters"  of  music,  Fritz  had  still  remained,  a  spe- 

92 


A   FRIEND    COMES    HOME 

cies  of  "  Janitor  of  Music,"  at  the  Leipsic  conserva- 
tory where  Roger  had  studied.  At  the  death  of  that 
kindly  Heir  Professor  who  had  harbored  him  for 
years,  Fritz  had  found  himself  indeed  forlorn.  Then 
Roger  had  come,  not  only  with  a  lovable  nature  and 
a  spirit  of  companionship  and  sympathy,  but  also  as 
one  to  whom  Fritz  owed  his  life.  Since  that  terrible 
hour  on  the  Alpine  glacier,  no  gratitude,  no  faithful- 
ness could  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  little  German's 
sense  of  debt.  All  the  eager  affection  of  his  nature 
was  concentrated  on  Roger.  The  parting  at  Leipsic 
had  afflicted  Fritz  with  an  almost  fatal  melancholy, 
which  nothing  could  dissipate  save  this  coming 
"home." 

Gordon  was  tall  and  powerful.  Fritz  was  small 
and  light.  Roger  took  him  up  in  his  arms  as  if  he  had 
been  but  a  child  and  carried  him  off  to  his  own  narrow 
bed,  where  he  took  off  the  dusty  shoes  and  covered 
his  guest  for  what  remained  of  the  night. 

For  himself,  there  was  still  something  urgent  de- 
manding thought, — a  theme  in  his  long  composition 
so  subtly  fragrant  of  his  love  for  Genevra,  and  of 
doubts  and  hopes,  that  to  grasp  it  in  musical  telling 
seemed  almost  beyond  him. 

He  sat  in  a  chair  and  closed  his  eyes.  The  theme 
eluded,  haunted,  soothed,  disturbed,  till  he  slept,  and 
smiled  at  what  he  dreamed. 

93 


V 

A   DAY   OF   LETTERS 


THE  morning  brought  the  customary  budget  of 
letters  and  papers  from  America.  Mondays  and 
Thursdays  are  scored  in  the  memories  of  all  self- 
exiled  wanderers  in  Britain  who  hail  from  "  the 
States."  The  double  knock  of  the  postman  sent 
Roger  down-stairs  like  the  boy  that  he  was.  Two 
letters  had  come  for  him,  one  from  Doctor  Pingle,  the 
other  from  "  little"  Teresa  Berry,  whose  writing  was 
never  twice  the  same,  since  he  heard  from  her  at 
intervals  so  long  between  that  the  improvement  re- 
sulting from  her  regular  attendance  at  school  had 
time  to  become  decided  between  these  epistles. 

He  read  Teresa's  letter  first,  for  by  habit  he  re- 
served the  best  for  the  last  in  whatsoever  he  did.  He 
was  always  interested  in  what  Teresa  wrote.  There 
was  genuine  sincerity  in  every  line.  Invariably,  how- 
ever, she  told  of  the  gratitude  she  felt  for  what  he 
had  done  on  that  terrible  night  when  he  found  her  at 
the  edge  of  the  wood.  He  would  much  have  pre- 
ferred an  omission  of  such  expressions.  Yet  he  knew 
it  was  kind  of  Teresa  always  to  hope  she  might  yet 
be  so  favored  by  the  fates  as  to  be  able  to  perform 
some  service  to  him  or  to  his. 

94 


A    DAY    OF    LETTERS 


He  opened  his  letter  from  Doctor  Pingle  with  a 
sense  of  one  partaking  of  a  treat.  And  the  closely 
written  lines  did  afford  him  this  to  an  extent  unusual, 
which  was  saying  much.  There  was  always  the  hearty 
clap  upon  the  back,  the  confidence  in  his  powers  and 
genius,  which  the  doctor  had  gradually  confessed; 
there  was  always  such  assurance  that  he  was  doing 
right ;  but  to-day  there  was  more. 

"  Don't  think  of  coming  home  to  me  yet,  my  lad,"  he 
read.  "  Stay  till  victory  perches  on  your  banner.  You 
need  not  give  yourself  this  worry  as  to  the  funds.  By 
all  means,  if  it  will  quiet  your  morbid  sensitiveness, 
consider  that  some  day  you  will  win  so  much  that  you 
can  pay  it  back,  but  let  me  tell  you  something,  lad. 
We  have  had  such  a  boom  in  our  lands  throughout 
the  country  that  I  was  enabled  to  sell  my  two  hundred 
acres,  out  back  of  the  village,  for  a  sum  that  seems  to 
me  a  fortune.  Dear  Roger,  I  have  more  money  than 
I  shall  ever  be  bold  enough  to  spend.  Let  me  have  a 
little  joy  of  my  fortune.  Are  you  not  more  to  me 
than  a  son?  Lad,  lad,  give  an  old  man,  a  fond  old 
man,  this  little  joy. 

"  Deny  yourself  nothing,  if  you  would  please  me 
most.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  wish  you  to 
succeed.  I  want  you  to  be  a  gentleman  of  whom  not 
only  I,  but  the  whole  State — if  not  the  whole  coun- 
try— may  be  proud.  I  want  you  to  write  that  great 

95 


THE   INEVITABLE 


new  composition  of  yours  under  conditions  of  mental 
ease  and  bodily  health.  Ride  out  often.  Walk  about 
in  the  parks,  since  you  find  them  of  such  beauty.  Meet 
nice  people,  for  without,  you  will  under-aim  when  you 
touch  on  emotions,  virtues,  and  weaknesses.  Perhaps 
I  should  have  spoiled  you  with  indulgence  earlier. 
But  when  I  think  of  the  poor  little  sums  on  which 
you  have  lived  and  studied,  up  to  a  mere  six  months 
ago,  I  yearn  over  my  lad  like  a  silly  old  woman.  Use 
what  I  send  you,  Roger,  and  make  me  a  glad  old 
man. 

"Dear  me,  how  the  time,  though  it  has  dragged 
since  your  going,  has  flowed  from  beneath  our  feet! 
Yes,  you  will,  as  you  say,  be  twenty-four  in  a  month. 
But  it  seems  to  me  your  mind  is  filled  enough  with  your 
work.  Therefore,  why  not  permit  the  papers,  which 
have  waited  so  long,  to  remain  where  they  are  till 
you  come  again  home?  We  could  look  them  over 
together  then,  and  rejoice  if  they  give  you  pleasure 
through  the  information  left  for  this  time  by  your 
father." 

Roger  had  never  been  certain  before  that  the  docu- 
ments left  in  the  doctor's  possession,  to  be  opened  on 
his  twenty-fourth  birthday,  had  been  supplied  by  his 
father.  During  all  these  years  of  close  application 
to  his  work  he  had  given  less  thought  to  the  matter 
than  he  had  as  a  boy.  He  was  not  willing  now,  how- 

96 


A   DAY    OF   LETTERS 


ever,  to  have  the  information  as  to  who  and  what  he 
was  deferred  in  the  manner  which  the  doctor  had  so 
carefully  planned. 

He  answered  the  letter  after  breakfasting  with 
Fritz.  Many  pages  he  filled  with  accounts  of  all  he 
was  doing,  all  of  which  he  wrote  in  his  boyish,  affec- 
tionate way.  But  he  also  covered  a  sheet  with  assur- 
ances to  Doctor  Pingle  that  he  would  feel  the  keenest 
disappointment  if  he  failed  to  receive  that  certain 
envelope,  intended  for  his  breaking  on  the  birthday 
now  so  near  at  hand.  "  The  course  of  my  life  might 
depend  on  what  it  was  meant  I  should  learn  at  this 
time,"  he  wrote.  "  I  know  that  your  sense  of  things 
sacred  in  promises  will  prompt  you  to  place  all  those 
papers  in  my  hands  as  my  father  desired." 

His  writing  finished,  he  completed  negotiations 
securing  a  room  in  the  house  for  Fritz,  and  board  at 
the  family  table.  This  arrangement  was  the  more 
readily  affected  as  the  young  lady  of  the  house,  whose 
sojourn  on  earth  for  a  matter  of  forty-seven  summers 
entitled  her  to  a  sense  of  discrimination,  conceived 
a  fascination  in  the  little  bifurcated  German  such  as 
no  other  man  had  ever  had  the  honor  to  engender  in 
her  bosom. 

With  the  faithful  Colossus  following  him  dog-like 
about  the  place,  Roger  finally  went  at  the  work  of 
composition  again  and  accomplished  much.  He  was 
7  97 


THE   INEVITABLE 


greatly  pleased  that  Fritz  had  come,  partially  because 
of  the  cleverness  with  which  he  facilitated  the  work, 
but  more  because  of  the  lingering  affection  which  he 
felt  for  the  otherwise  forlorn  little  being. 

Engrossed  absolutely  in  the  labor  that  filled  all  his 
nature  with  emotion,  he  remembered  abruptly  that  he 
was  due  at  Lady  Denby's  house  at  three.  He  looked 
at  his  watch  and  found  it  was  two  o'clock  already. 
There  was  barely  time  to  dress  and  run. 

When  he  sped  down  the  stairs  he  found  that  three 
more  letters  had  come  since  the  post  of  the  morning. 
He  took  them  all  and,  tearing  them  open,  read  their 
contents  as  he  went. 

The  first  was  an  invitation  from  Lady  Fitzhenry, 
who  hoped  he  would  come  to  a  small  dinner-party 
she  was  giving  on  Saturday  evening  at  eight.  The 
second  was  an  invitation  to  a  rose-bud  tea,  from  the 
Marchioness  of  Rowley  and  the  Honorable  Miss  Mel- 
gand,  at  five  that  afternoon.  The  third  was  a  second 
thought  from  Lady  Fitzhenry,  who  would  be  at  home 
that  evening  to  a  few  artistic  and  literary  friends 
whom  he  might  take  pleasure  in  meeting. 

Because  he  saw  in  these  invitations  the  possibility 
of  finding  Genevra  once  again,  Roger  was  excited 
thus  to  receive  them.  His  heart  was  beating  un- 
wontedly,  as  it  was,  for  the  hour  of  three  was  so  near 
at  hand,  with  all  that  fate  might  do,  if  she  would. 

-98 


VI 

THE   OPENING   OF  VISTAS 


THE  fairest  rose  in  all  her  beautiful  garden  was 
Lady  Minto-Denby  herself.  The  gentlemen  said  so, 
one  after  another,  as  fast  as  they  came. 

There  were  not  very  many  present  this  afternoon. 
It  was  a  perfect  day.  The  chairs  and  settees  on  the 
lawn  were  most  inviting.  The  house,  wide  open  to 
the  wantoning  breeze,  was  deserted. 

Lady  Denby  herself,  in  a  great  black  hat  of  the 
Gainsborough  school  of  millinery,  sat  at  ease,  chat- 
ting gayly  with  an  author  who  had  once  upon  a  time 
made  a  dramatization  of  the  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  which 
had  come  within  an  ace  of  being  played.  She  moved 
but  little,  for  the  clever  Jule  Arthur,  sometime  wizard 
with  a  pencil,  was  making  her  portrait,  against  the 
garden  background  of  color. 

The  only  actor  in  London  who  was  rich,  and  knew 
enough  to  remain  so,  was  strolling  up  and  down  the 
grass  with  a  slip  of  a  youth,  who  had  "  done"  a  poem 
which  had  titivated  all  Paris  for  a  week.  As  he  added 
himself  to  the  number,  in  the  place  of  delights,  Roger 
looked  about  him,  quite  at  his  ease,  yet  not  entirely 
without  a  sense  of  intruding.  His  hostess  was  his 

99 


THE    INEVITABLE 


only  acquaintance  there.  He  walked  forward  and 
lifted  his  hat. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Herr  Comanche  ?  I  am  charmed 
to  see  you,"  said  her  ladyship,  extending  her  hand 
without  otherwise  moving.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  came. 
I  wish  to  speak  to  you  of  something  on  my  mind. — 
Ned,"  she  added,  to  the  author  whose  work  had  ap- 
proached so  perilously  near  to  production,  "  give  your 
chair  to  Herr  Comanche.  He  must  sit  here  and  tell 
me  many  things." 

The  author  arose  and  bowed.  "  With  pleasure," 
he  said,  and  retired  gracefully. 

Somewhat  embarrassed,  Roger  bowed  in  return  and 
took  the  seat  to  which  his  hostess  waved  him  with 
her  fan. 

"  What  a  charming  place  you  have,"  he  said. 

"  It's  good  of  you  to  like  it,"  she  answered.  "  Do 
you  like  England?  Have  you  been  here  long,  from 
Leipsic  ?" 

"  Not  quite  six  weeks,"  he  told  her.  "  I  like  it, 
yes,  very  much." 

"And  you  are  really  composing  a  wonderful  piece 
of  music?" 

"  I  should  hardly  dare  to  estimate  its  worth,"  he 
answered  her,  laughingly.  "  The  limits  of  the  human 
brain  are  so  narrow  that  no  man,  I  think,  can  both  do 
his  work  and  see  it  critically  at  the  same  time.  The 

100 


THE    OPENING    OF    VISTAS 

theme  is  great  enough,  but  that  is  none  of  my  crea- 
ting." 

"  Mr.  Lennox  has  told  me  your  theme  is  Paradise 
Lost.  Have  you  taken  the  Miltonic  conception?" 

Roger  nodded.  "  It  is  so  easy  in  this  world  to  lose 
a  paradise  that  a — a  dream  first  suggested  the  possi- 
bilities of  such  a  composition,  and  then  the  poem,  so 
world-felt  and  so  sublimated,  lifted  my  poor  weak 
thought  into  heights  supernal — if  only  I  can  reach 
them !" 

Three  ladies  were  coming  towards  them  from  the 
gate.  He  glanced  at  them  quickly,  hopefully.  Ge- 
nevra  was  not  of  the  number.  She  had  not  yet  come. 
His  hostess  could  not  have  divined  his  thoughts,  and 
yet  she  said, — 

"  Miss  Harberton — you  remember,  you  met  her  last 
night — promised  to  come  this  afternoon.  I  told  her 
perhaps  you  would  play  for  us.  I  don't  know  why 
she  isn't  here." 

Something  sank  in  Gordon's  heart.  If  Genevra 
knew  he  was  coming,  and  chose  to  remain  away, 
could  it  be  that  she  did  so  to  avoid  him?  The  pang 
of  the  thought  was  poignant.  He  smiled,  however, 
and  murmured  something  about  his  pleasure,  when 
presented  to  the  ladies  who  had  come  to  where  their 
hostess  was  seated. 

"  Sit  down  again,  Herr  Comanche,"  said  her  lady- 
101 


THE    INEVITABLE 


ship  when  she  had  welcomed  the  ladies  and  seen  them 
gravitating  nearer  to  the  men.  "  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  how  nearly  finished  your  composition  is." 

"  In  the  rough  it  is  nearly  completed,"  said  Roger. 
"  But  I  could  work  at  it  for  years,  reducing  its  crudi- 
ties and  making  it  better." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  it  ready  for  public  production 
in  three  or  four  weeks  ?" 

"Public — production?"  he  echoed,  in  honest  sur- 
prise. 

"  Yes.  You  must.  I  want  you  to  do  so.  You  see 
I  have  taken  an  interest  in  your  work  at  once.  I 
think  you  will  do  something — something  highly  credit- 
able. I  want  you  to  promise  to  have  your  '  Paradise 
Lost'  ready  for  a  great  production  soon,  at  the  Royal 
Albert  Hall.  Will  you  do  it?  I  asked  you  to  come 
here  to-day  to  get  you  to  promise." 

Roger  was  instantly  thinking  of  Fritz,  the  eager 
little  Fritz,  who  alone,  of  all  the  men  he  knew,  could 
lend  him  the  aid  which  the  labor  of  hastening  his 
work  to  completion  for  a  public  recital  demanded. 

"  Why — it  would  be  wonderful !"  he  said,  boy- 
ishly. "  I  am  willing  to  work — hard,  but  I  don't  see 
how  I  could  manage " 

"  Oh,  you  can  leave  the  management  to  me,"  Lady 
Denby  interrupted.  "  I  have  a  bit  of  influence.  I 
shall  use  it.  I  can  get  you  the  hall — the  opportunity, 

1 02 


THE    OPENING   OF   VISTAS 

if  only  you  will  complete  your  composition  and  make 
it  ready  soon." 

It  seemed  to  Roger  he  was  dreaming.  He  knew 
nothing  of  her  ladyship's  anxiety  to  create  a  lion,  nor 
that  such  a  creation  must  be  hastened,  if  her  social 
set  were  to  enjoy  her  zoological  triumph  before  the 
season  should  end  with  the  hotter  weather.  He  was 
dazed  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  promise  which  the  thing 
contained.  It  was  so  utterly  incredible — so  much 
more  wild  than  the  wildest  of  his  dreams. 

"  But  perhaps — what  I  have  done — would  not  be 
good  enough,"  he  faltered.  "  You  have  not  even  heard 
a  bar  of  my  music." 

"  But  I  have  heard  from  Mr.  Lennox  that  you  have 
done  something  superlative,"  she  insisted.  "  I  wanted 
Genevra  to  hear  you  to-day.  She  is  a  far  better  judge 
than  I  am.  In  fact  I  know  very  little  about  music. 
But  I  will  use  the  influence,  if  you  will  promise  to  get 
your  work  prepared.  What  do  you  say?" 

"  I  should  be  but  a  sorry  boor  to  refuse  to  do  my 
best,"  he  said.  "  But  what  shall  I  do,  and  how  will 
you  feel,  if  at  the  end  I  disappoint  you  utterly?" 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  such  a  finality  ?" 

"  No.  It  seems  to  me  the  work  cannot  be  wholly 
bad.  It  has  come  from — I  don't  know  where.  There 
are  some  of  its  moods  that  I  think  I  could  never  write 
again  were  I  to  lose  the  score.  But  I  should  be  sorry 

103 


THE    INEVITABLE 


to  over-estimate  myself,  or  to  be  over-estimated  by — 
a  friend." 

The  earnestness  with  which  he  spoke  marked  him 
for  a  class  far  removed  from  that  in  which  her  male 
acquaintances  had  their  orbit.  She  felt  for  a  moment 
the  contact  of  the  physical  magnetism  which  emanated 
from  him  always. 

"  You  are  good  to  agree  to  my  proposal,"  she  told 
him.  "  It  is  settled,  then,  that  I  may  go  ahead,  and 
you  will  make  yourself  ready  for  an  early  production. 
Now,  when  will  you  play  for  Genevra — Miss  Harber- 
ton?" 

She  failed  to  observe  the  flush  of  color  that  rose 
to  the  surface,  beneath  the  dark  bronze  of  his  face. 

"  I  shall  be  pleased  to  play  whenever  she  shall  re- 
quest me,"  he  answered. 

"  Very  good.  Jule,  I  am  bored  with  this  posing." 
She  arose  in  her  sprightly  manner  and  struck  a  little 
gong.  "  Herr  Comanche,  are  you  un-American  enough 
as  yet  to  take  tea?" 

"  To  compromise  between  extremes,  I  take  a  small 
cup  one  time  and  then  decline  it  the  next.  To-day  I 
indulge,  or  I  do  not  indulge — I  have  really  forgotten 
which.  To  be  quite  impartial  I  must  take  half  tea  and 
half  water." 

He  wished  to  remain.  He  hoped  Genevra  would  yet 
appear.  But  the  tiny  spoons  tinkled  like  silver  clappers 

104 


THE    OPENING   OF   VISTAS 

in  the  dainty  bells  of  Dresden  china,  the  quip  and  com- 
pliment of  insincerity  assumed  their  many  fashions, 
the  afternoon  sped  away  with  a  fragrance  of  crushed 
grass  and  roses — and  Genevra  failed  to  come. 

Wild  with  delight  as  his  flights  of  hope  and  ambition 
were,  as  he  went  to  his  home,  Gordon  was  far  from 
being  happy.  Genevra  knew  he  would  be  at  Lady 
Denby's,  and  she  had  chosen  not  to  come.  He  felt  the 
rebuke,  or  the  slight,  or  whatsoever  it  was,  she  had 
planned  to  inflict.  It  all  but  cancelled  the  gratification 
he  felt  at  the  sudden,  incredible  opening  of  the  portals 
of  that  musical  Valhalla,  of  the  approach  to  which  he 
had  hardly  dared  to  dream. 

For  the  hundredth  time  he  thought  back  upon  their 
meeting  and  of  what  she  had  said.  He  saw  that  her 
words  had  but  drawn  him  out.  He  had  nearly  con- 
fessed that  his  life  had  been  lived  for  that  dream  of 
the  day  when  he  met  her,  and  played  for  her  there 
in  the  forest,  on  the  stump  of  the  tree — his  first 
'cello.  She  had  laughed  at  him.  This  he  could  see. 
All  she  had  said  of  constancy  and  of  meeting  again 
had  been  but  to  mock  him. 

By  what  right  had  he  hoped  that  in  womanhood 
she  would  still  be  clinging  to  the  thought  of  that 
moment  of  childish  impulsiveness  and  folly?  Doubt- 
less she  now  felt  ashamed  of  that  mood  of  weakness, 
all  but  forgotten  till  he  came  again  across  her  path 

105 


THE    INEVITABLE 


in  this,  her  sphere  of  pride  and  triumph.  There  had 
been  no  compact  between  them.  There  had  never 
been  a  reason  why  either  should  remember  that  mere 
silly  prank  of  a  boy  and  a  girl.  That  he  had  so  treas- 
ured the  memory  argued  nothing,  save  that  a  man  may 
be  a  sentimental  fool. 

His  sensitive  nature  was  hurt,  deeply.  His  pride 
became  perforce  his  armor.  His  schooling,  harsh  and 
severe,  had  produced  its  foil  of  iron  in  his  soul.  He 
went  home  with  sentiment  apparently  dragging  at  the 
wheel  of  disdain,  but  his  soul  was  more  than  ever  in 
the  work  of  concluding  his  "  Paradise  Lost." 


1 06 


VII 

A  WIDENING   BREACH 


GENEVRA  could  have  slapped  the  face  of  Madam 
Fate  with  rare  satisfaction,  for  fate  it  was  that  pre- 
vented her  from  taking  taking  tea  at  Lady  Denby's  on 
the  afternoon  of  Roger's  visit.  Her  father,  having 
undergone  one  of  his  inopportune  recurrences  of 
memory,  had  left  his  books  and  his  microscope  long 
enough  to  keep  an  engagement  to  spend  a  day  with  his 
sister,  at  Datchet.  On  occasions  like  this,  Genevra, 
together  with  his  night  apparel  and  a  novel — which 
he  never  read — was  indispensable.  He  might,  indeed, 
have  dispensed  with  the  novel  on  a  pinch,  but  to  move 
about  away  from  home  without  his  child  would  have 
been  as  quaint  as  to  walk  without  his  shoes. 

Never,  since  that  day  when  she  had  come  so  near  to 
seeing  Roger  Gordon  hanged  on  a  tree,  had  Genevra 
been  so  excited  as  the  meeting  at  Lady  Minto-Denby's 
had  made  her.  Her  slumbrous  eyes  were  alight  with 
a  new,  strange  fire.  Her  full  red  lips  were  parted 
still,  as  if  she  could  not  otherwise  get  the  breath  that 
the  leaping  of  her  heart  required.  Her  nature  de- 
manded that  she  see  him  again.  She  loved  him,  do 
what  she  might.  She  must  therefore  know,  before 

107 


THE    INEVITABLE 


she  could  make  herself  believe  him  false  to  that  first 
sweet  day  of  their  meeting, — know  all  that  he  was, 
and  all  he  had  meant  by  his  half-confessions. 

Every  word  he  had  said  at  Lady  Denby's  she  re- 
hearsed a  hundred  times  over.  His  speeches  brought 
her  hopes,  despairs,  and  needs  for  seeing  him  soon. 
If  only  some  of  his  words  had  been  left  unsaid,  how 
sweet  many  others  would  have  sounded!  He  had  no 
right,  she  told  herself,  impetuously,  so  to  rob  her 
again  of  the  love  of  her  heart,  unless  his  own  gave 
back  again  a  passion  as  deep  as  he  took. 

He  had  been  at  a  disadvantage,  it  was  true.  She 
had  known  him  at  once,  and  he  had  failed  to  recognize 
her.  That  was  more  than  half  his  fault.  He  should 
have  known.  But  part  of  the  fault  was  her  own.  She 
might  so  easily  have  let  him  know.  And  what  a  differ- 
ence that  might  have  made ! 

She  clung  tenaciously  to  what  he  had  said  he  was 
writing  in  his  music.  She  had  felt  what  it  meant  to 
his  better  self  by  the  way  he  had  looked  when  he  told 
her  his  theme  was  of  Paradise  Lost.  Oh,  if  his  memory 
of  that  childhood  love  had  lasted  so  long  and  meant 
so  much,  how  deeply  indeed  his  dream  had  entered 
his  life!  If  she  had  been  so  much  as  that  to  him, 
really,  it  could  never  be  possible  he  would  fling  it  all 
away  in  lightness.  It  would  certainly  have  marked  his 
heart — as  hers  had  been  marked,  with  a  mark  to  last 

108 


A   WIDENING    BREACH 


forever,  in  that  one  brief  hour  of  theirs,  years  before. 
This  was  her  hope — her  all. 

She  was  sorry  now  she  had  left  him  so  abruptly,  the 
second  he  knew  who  she  was  at  last.  This  was  one 
of  the  whys  she  must  meet  him  again  without  delay. 
She  felt  she  had  been  unfair,  almost  mean.  What  was 
he  thinking,  all  these  hours  since  then? 

In  one  starving  moment  she  thought  of  all  those 
things  he  had  said,  and  demanded  that  she  be  the  one 
— the  some  one  at  present  dispelling  his  dream  of  the 
past.  Those  words  should  not  have  meant  any  one 
else — they  shouldn't!  But,  if  they  did — her  heart 
would  break! 

And  yet  when  she  and  her  father  came  back  to  town, 
on  Saturday  morning,  the  first  letter  she  found  among 
the  many  on  the  table  was  one  sealed  with  the  crest  of 
Lady  Fitzhenry.  It  was  merely  an  invitation  to  the 
dinner-party  to  be  given  that  evening,  but  it  brought 
back  that  moment  in  which  she  had  felt  that  Roger 
had  fallen  a  victim  to  this  ravishing  beauty's  charms. 
A  fierce  little  hatred  for  Lady  Fitzhenry  burned  up  in 
her  breast.  Perhaps  she  had  also  invited  Roger. 
Indeed,  this  was  more  than  likely.  It  was  almost  a 
certainty.  If  she  had,  what  would  it  mean? 

Genevra  stamped  her  little  foot  at  this.  She  hated 
Lady  Fitzhenry!  Roger  wouldn't  go!  But  why — 
why  shouldn't  he  go  ?  He  would,  of  course  he  would. 

109 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  I  won't  go !"  said  Genevra.    "  I  won't— I  won't !" 

But  Genevra  was  a  woman.  Promptly  at  the  hour 
of  eight  the  guests  arrived,  nearly  together.  All  had 
come,  with  the  single  exception  of  Herr  Comanche. 
Genevra  was  glad — so  exultantly  glad.  Algy  Lennox 
was  there,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  out  of  her  pleasure 
at  the  absence  of  Gordon.  The  appointed  time  for 
commencing  the  dinner  passed,  however,  and  still  their 
hostess  waited.  Genevra,  all  alertness,  watched  to  see 
what  this  delay  might  signify. 

The  door-bell  rang.  A  faint  smile  passed  over  the 
face  of  Lady  Fitzhenry. 

"  Mr.  Lennox,  will  you  take  Miss  Harberton,  if  you 
please?"  she  said,  and  moving  swiftly  among  her 
guests,  she  paired  them  off  adroitly,  and  fluttered  back 
to  the  door  to  head  the  procession  to  the  dining-room 
beyond.  Almost  at  the  threshold  she  met  the  delin- 
quent for  whom  she  had  waited, — Roger. 

Genevra  beheld  him,  tall,  dark,  handsome,  perhaps 
a  trifle  tired  about  his  deep-set  eyes,  and  her  heart 
nearly  fainted.  With  a  smile  of  welcome  their  hostess 
took  his  arm  and  gently  turned  him  about. 

"Will  you  take  me?"  she  said.  "You  are  just  in 
time." 

A  trifle  confused  by  the  formal  array  of  guests,  to 
none  of  whom  he  was  presented,  Roger  had  not  so 
much  as  an  opportunity  to  glance  the  company  over, 

JIO 


A   WIDENING    BREACH 


till  he  found  himself  at  the  table  beside  her  ladyship. 
When  he  took  his  seat  with  the  others,  he  at  last  dis- 
covered Genevra,  far  down  the  table,  talking  and 
laughing  gayly  with  Lennox.  A  bright  spot  of  color 
made  her  cheeks  glorious.  Her  slumbrous  eyes,  thus 
seen  in  profile,  were  so  lustrously  beautiful  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  could  never  look  anywhere  else. 

But  she  scorned  to  flash  an  answer  to  his  yearning 
gaze.  She  had  looked  at  him,  pleadingly,  longingly, 
for  a  time  that  seemed  to  her  an  age,  but  not  so  much 
as  a  glance  had  he  deigned  to  give  in  response.  He 
was  false!  He  loved — that  creature  beside  him! 
Humiliated,  angered,  ready  to  sob,  Genevra  had  turned 
her  eyes  away  and  would  look  no  more  where  he 
was. 

Remembering  all  that  Lennox  had  told  her  of  Gor- 
don and  Lady  Fitzhenry,  she  hated  them  both.  If  he 
could  be  so  happy,  so  could  she.  Algy  Lennox  was 
willing  to  help.  She  checked  an  impulse  to  laugh 
aloud,  hysterically.  Instead  she  smiled  at  Lennox,  who 
had  not  the  penetration  to  see  how  distraught  she  was. 
Nothing  should  tempt  her  or  bribe  her  now  to  look 
where  Roger  was  sitting. 

And  Gordon,  beholding  her  gay  with  Lennox,  point- 
edly avoiding  the  courtesy  of  even  a  nod,  read  the  con- 
firmation of  his  fears  and  doubts  already  gnawing  at 
his  heart.  He  could  have  groaned  for  the  anguish  of 

in 


THE    INEVITABLE 


that  moment.  He  had  hoped — even  since  that  Thurs- 
day afternoon  at  Lady  Denby's  garden  tea — hoped  that 
her  absence  had  not  been  intentional — that  something 
would  yet  explain  it  away  and  leave  them  at  least 
where  they  stood  when  last  they  parted.  He  had 
worked  since  then  in  a  fever  of  alternating  doubt  and 
hope.  He  had  sounded  the  depths  of  despair,  he  had 
scaled  the  pinnacles  of  a  joy  sublime,  and  in  such  a 
mood  as  this  he  had  roughly  finished  his  composi- 
tion. 

The  chatter  of  conversation  from  many  different 
centres  began  at  once. 

"  Herr  Comanche,  you  were  naughty  not  to  come  on 
Thursday  evening,"  said  the  hostess  in  her  sweetest 
mood. 

"  I  thought  your  friends  would  forgive  me,"  said 
Roger. 

"  Yes,  but  what  of  me  ?  Did  you  think  I  should  do 
the  same?" 

"  Why  not  ?  There  was  one  less  to  divide  yourself 
among." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  assured  him,  "  had  you  come 
I  should  have  devoted  myself  to  one  only.  As  it  was, 
I  was  bored  with  such  a  division  as  you  speak  about." 

Gordon  was  not  a  little  amazed  at  her  candor.  He 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  first  surprise  at  finding 
himself  her  honored  guest.  He  looked  at  her  half 

112 


A    WIDENING   BREACH 


inquiringly,  and  met  such  a  kindling  glance  from  her 
eyes  that  he  felt  the  color  rising  to  his  face. 

"  Then  your  escape  was  providential,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  When  a  fit  of  work  is  on  me,  I  am  worse 
than  indifferent  company.  Therefore  I  look  for  your 
pardon."  He  laid  his  finger  across  the  mouth  of  his 
glass,  at  the  downward  dip  of  a  bottle's  head. 

"  Don't  look  in  an  empty  glass,"  she  said.  "  Have 
a  little  of  the  wine." 

"  It  is  wine  enough  to  be  here,"  he  answered.  "  A 
drink  would  dull  the  fragrant  exhilaration." 

Lady  Fitzhenry  knew  better.  With  fumes  gone  to 
his  head  she  always  found  it  easier  to  go  to  a  man's 
imagination,  or  his  heart.  But  she  could  not  insist. 

"  I  had  thought  you  were  not  an  idle  flatterer,  Herr 
Comanche,"  she  told  him. 

"  Can  one  be  called  idle  when  employed  at  anything 
— even  flattery?"  he  parried  skilfully. 

"  Your  reluctance  for  parting  with  a  compliment 
would  make  me  prize  even  a  small  one,"  she  said, 
smiling  upon  him  bewitchingly.  "  Are  you  not  aware 
that  to  poor  weak  woman  compliments  are  the  nectar 
of  life?" 

"  I  had  always  believed  that  goddesses  live  on  am- 
brosia," Roger  said,  with  gravity.  "  I  fear  my  wit 
would  furnish  less  than  the  bread  and  butter  of  com- 
pliments." 

8  113 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  I  never  knew  a  man  who  could  rightly  appraise 
such  commodities.  You  should  bring  me  a  few  of 
your  samples." 

"  If  I  parted  with  my  samples  I  should  make  myself 
insolvent,"  said  Roger. 

"  You  mean,  plainly,  that  you  will  give  me  no  compli- 
ments," she  said,  archly.  "  You  are  honest,  if  cruel. 
You  are  also  unique ;  therefore  I  must  like  you  whether 
I  will  or  no.  But  I  ask  you,  is  this  coercion  fair  ?" 

"  As  fair  as  I  am,"  he  answered,  "  and  fairer  than 
many  deductions." 

"You  are  so  outrageously  discreet,"  she  told  him, 
and,  turning  to  a  much  bewhiskered  lord  who  sat  at 
her  left,  she  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon/ 

His  lordship  repeated,  "  I  was  saying,  it  is  quite  the 
season  for  golf." 

The  glance  that  Roger  sent  to  where  Genevra  was 
sitting  found  her  even  more  animated,  bright,  and  kind 
to  Lennox  than  before.  Her  own  little  half-hopeful 
look  in  his  direction,  a  minute  earlier,  had  destroyed 
all  possibility  of  a  truce  between  them.  It  was  posi- 
tively indecent,  Genevra  told  herself  in  anger,  for 
Roger  and  Lady  Fitzhenry  to  look  such  unbridled 
admiration  for  each  other  in  company. 


"4 


VIII 

A   FIRST  VIOLIN 


THE  dinner,  by  a  stroke  of  fortune,  Gordon  thought, 
came  to  an  end  at  last.  The  ladies  arose  with  one 
accord  and  left  the  room,  while  the  men  accepted 
cigars  from  the  butler,  shifted  their  chairs  to  postures 
of  ease,  assembled  in  pairs  and  groups,  and  commenced 
to  smoke,  and  to  drink  in  earnest. 

"  I  fancy  I  met  you  at  the  Minto-Denby's,"  said  the 
whiskered  lord  to  Gordon.  "Do  you  golf?" 

"  Not  often,"  said  Roger,  who  had  never  known  the 
difference  between  a  caddy  and  a  bunker. 

"  Huh !  I  can  recommend  Surrey.  Fine  country 
for  golf."  He  nodded  affably  and  made  his  way  to 
the  whiskey  and  soda. 

Roger  left  the  end  of  the  table  and  went  to  where 
Lennox  was  lighting  a  flat  cigarette. 

"  How  are  you,  old  chap  ?"  said  Lennox.  "  Deuced 
rapid  strides  you're  making  into  the  graces  of  her 
ladyship." 

"  Your  introduction  is  the  badge  that  wins  me  any 
favor,"  Roger  assured  him.  "  I  want  you  to  do  some- 
thing more.  I  need  your  help." 

"  So  Gulliver  may  have  said  to  the  pigmies,"  Lennox 
replied. 

us 


THE   INEVITABLE 


"  This  is  a  very  humble  Gulliver  addressing  the 
Brobdignagians,"  Gordon  said,  with  a  smile.  "  I  want 
you  not  only  to  give  me  an  orchestra,  but  to  play  first 
violin  yourself." 

"  I  say !  Sit  down  and  say  that  again.  An  orches- 
tra? Whatever  for,  old  chap?" 

"  Lady  Denby  has  asked  me  to  give  that  composi- 
tion, you  know,  my  '  Paradise  Lost,'  in  the  Royal  Albert 
Hall,  and  I  want  you  to  play  first  violin,  and  get  me, 
or  help  me  to  get,  an  orchestra  together  at  once,  all 
save  one  clarionet." 

"  My  word !"  said  Lennox,  staring  at  his  friend  in 
amazement. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  wonderful  piece  of  luck — a  miracle, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Rather !  You  are  a  wonderful  chap.  Awfully 
good  of  you  to  ask  me  to  play." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Roger.  "  There  is  no  one  I  ever 
knew  that  I'd  rather  have  to  help  me  get  the  effect  I'm 
after.  I  have  wished  a  thousand  times  I  could  play  as 
you  do,  Algernon." 

"  Thanks,  old  man,  but  your  music  will  still  go  on 
after  I'm  dead  and  forgotten  a  hundred  years." 

"Oh,  never!  I  know  better.  But  you  will  do  it? 
You'll  play?"  said  Gordon,  eagerly. 

"  I  will,  Comanche.  To  be  sure  I  will — and  honored 
to  do  it." 

116 


A    FIRST   VIOLIN 


"  And  you'll  help  me  to  get  the  others  ?  I  want 
everything — the  more  in  the  orchestra  the  better.  Do 
you  know  of  a  good  lot  of  men  ?" 

"  I  know  a  selected  organization.  They've  gone  in 
for  art  for  art's  sake,  and  that  sort  of  rot;  they  can 
do  the  work, — they  do  want  a  lot  of  beating.  They 
are  half  of  them  German,  some  Hungarians,  and  some 
bally  good  Britishers,  like  myself." 

"  Good.  I  knew  you  would  know  what  to  do  and 
how  to  help  me  out.  When  can  we  get  them  ?  I  want 
the  first  rehearsal  soon." 

"  Next  week.  Say  Wednesday  afternoon.  Would 
that  answer?" 

"  For  trials,  yes.  I  may  want  to  make  a  few  changes, 
— but  maybe  not.  I  hope  not.  I  should  like  to  have 
them  arrange  a  date  for  the  first  rehearsal  as  soon  as 
they  can." 

"  Right  you  are.  I  shall  see  their  manager  to- 
morrow— no,  Monday."  He  added,  in  a  moment,  "  I 
say,  old  fellow,  I'm  jolly  well  glad  you've  got  such  a 
chance.  Your  fortune's  as  good  as  made." 

"Gentlemen,  shall  we  join  the  ladies?"  said  a  man 
who  had  assumed  the  duties  of  spokesman,  and,  turn- 
ing to  the  bewhiskered  lord,  as  they  started  away,  he 
added,  "  Rare  good  sort,  that  lady  you  took  in  to 
dinner." 

His  lordship's  eye  almost  lighted.  "  Grand  woman 
117 


THE    INEVITABLE 


at  golf,"  he  said,  and  they  passed  from  the  apartment 
which  they  had  hung  with  their  banners  of  smoke. 

The  ladies  were  found  to  be  amusing  themselves 
with  a  dog  that  "  stood  on  guard,"  "  saluted  her  Maj- 
esty," and  "  died  for  the  Queen."  These  tricks  the 
beast  continued  to  perform  by  himself,  even  after  all 
had  ceased  to  pay  attention  to  his  antics.  At  length, 
in  disgust,  the  creature  crawled  off  and  sulked  beneath 
the  lounge. 

Cleverly  avoiding  a  movement  on  the  part  of  Lady 
Fitzhenry  to  corner  him,  Gordon  presently  found  him- 
self confronted  by  Lennox  and  Genevra,  come  upon 
him  while  they  too  were  unaware  of  his  near  presence. 

He  would  still  have  managed  to  pass,  with  a  smile 
at  Lennox,  but  the  latter  halted,  intent  upon  a  little 
test  which  the  lurking  jealousy  within  him  chanced  to 
prompt. 

"  I  say,  you  two  must  remember  you  met  only 
Wednesday  night,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Harberton,  you 
know  Herr  Comanche?" 

"Great  pleasure,"  Gordon  murmured,  in  confusion, 
as  he  bowed. 

"  We  know  each  other — quite  well,"  said  Genevra, 
coldly.  "  Really,  Mr.  Lennox,  I  must  be  saying  good- 
night to  Lady  Fitzhenry." 

She  bowed  as  they  passed,  and  Roger  was  left  there 
chilled  to  the  core  of  his  heart. 

lift 


IX 

THE    DARK   HOURS 


THE  hour  of  Gordon's  recital  was  nearly  at  hand, 
and  Roger  and  Genevra  had  not  met  since  the  night 
at  Lady  Fitzhenry's  party.  She  was  the  first  to  see 
him  as  he  came  across  the  lawn  at  Lady  Denby's  on 
the  last  afternoon  before  the  production  of  his  work. 

He  was  wan,  rather  than  pale,  and  his  eyes  appeared 
more  than  usually  sad  and  deeply  set.  The  weariness 
expressed  in  his  face  and  walk  advertised  itself  to 
Genevra  till  her  heart  yearned  over  him  maternally. 
She  knew  that  close  application  to  his  labors  had  ex- 
hausted much  of  his  vital  force,  but  she  was  not  aware 
it  was  his  heart-soreness  that  had  robbed  him  of  his 
spirit. 

He  and  Fritz  had  toiled  unceasingly  with  orchestra- 
tions and  changes  in  the  composition.  Roger  had  also 
expended  hours  drilling  the  numerous  musicians, 
already  in  training  under  his  masterful  guidance,  to 
interpret  his  musical  creation.  He  had  tried  to  forget 
that  this  Genevra  of  the  present  was  the  same  Genevra 
he  had  known  so  long  before.  There  was  sweetness 
left  in  memory,  of  which  the  present  was  so  barren. 
There  was  bitterness  in  the  cup  of  to-day  such  as  his 
dream,  even  without  a  promise  of  realization,  had 

119 


THE    INEVITABLE 


never  known.  But  he  found  it  impossible  to  divide 
that  little  Genevra  of  his  boyhood  from  this  proud, 
regal  young  woman  he  had  found  at  the  end  of  his 
search.  And  the  bitter  and  sweet  of  reality  and  dream 
mingled,  till  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  be 
wholly  definite.  He  loved  her  still — more  than  he  had 
loved  her  as  a  boy,  or  throughout  his  long  years  of 
waiting.  Therefore  he  clung  to  this  present,  harsh  as 
he  found  it,  and  had  no  peace. 

Lady  Denby  hastened  forward  to  meet  him  as  he 
came  from  the  gate.  She  was  confident  of  success  at 
last.  Merely  to  give  a  recital  at  Albert  Hall,  where 
all  England's  elite  would  applaud  his  effort,  no  matter 
how  far  from  great  it  might  prove,  would  do  the  work. 
She  thought,  however,  she  saw  more  than  a  negative 
success  promised  in  Herr  Comanche's  earnestness  and 
modesty.  The  recifal  had  been  advertised  with  an 
effectiveness  far  exceeding  anything  possible  with 
printer's  ink;  the  house  was  sold  out  at  preposterous 
prices ;  the  world  of  society,  culture,  and  music  would 
sit  at  the  feet  of  her  protege,  where  he  could  keep 
them,  if  he  had  but  the  power  and  the  genius. 

Nevertheless,  her  ladyship  was  excited.  A  down- 
right fiasco  would  be  disastrous,  terrible.  She  knew 
she  risked  much,  thus  to  present  a  bronze-complex- 
ioned  Red-Indian  from  the  wilds  of  the  States.  If  he 
failed  signally,  she  would  go  to  the  Continent  for  a 

120 


year.  But  if  only  he  could  win  success — what  a 
triumph,  what  a  fad,  her  Red-Indian  would  instantly 
become ! 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Herr  Comanche,"  she 
said,  in  all  sincerity.  "  Ana  how  is  the  work  ?  Are 
you  not  a  bit  tired?  Does  your  orchestra  satisfy  you 
now?  Quite?  I  have  been  dying  to  hear  just  one 
rehearsal,  but  I  haven't.  I  have  kept  away  bravely — 
for  a  woman.  I  do  hope  everything  will  go  smoothly 
and  just  as  you  want  it!  You  must  come  and  sit  down 
and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  It  will  do  you  good,  really. 
Indeed,  you  need  it!" 

"  You  are  far  too  kind,"  said  Gordon,  quietly.  "  I 
came  to  report  that  everything  seems  to  be  heading  as 
well  as  one  could  expect.  It  all  depends  now  on  the 
worth  of  what  I  have  written.  If  it  fails," — he  hesi- 
tated and  a  faint  smile  passed  across  his  face — "if  it 
fails,  it  and  I  and  my  hour  will  soon  be  forgotten.  The 
failures  consigned  to  oblivion  must  find  themselves  in 
a  large  company." 

"  That  sounds  so  pessimistic.  You  are  not  discour- 
aged, Herr  Comanche  ?  You  are  only  tired,  I  hope.  It 
does  take  it  out  of  one  to  work  so  hard  and  constantly. 
You  are  a  bit  worn, — that's  all,  of  course?" 

"  That's  all,"  he  echoed.  He  had  seen  Genevra  hesi- 
tate and  turn  away,  to  talk  with  the  Honorable  Miss 
Melgand,  who  had  come  to  sip  a  cup  of  tea.  He  had 


THE    INEVITABLE 


not  been  further  hurt — she  had  made  him  already 
numb  to  woundings ;  his  weariness  and  mental  fatigue 
had  completed  the  dulling  of  his  feelings.  He  added, 
in  a  moment,  "  The  ego  within  me  is  too  hopeful  to 
contemplate  defeat  for  to-morrow  evening,  but  we 
never  know.  A  man  may  fail  in  more  ways  than  one." 

"  I  feel  so  glad  of  that  ego,"  Lady  Denby  told  him, 
earnestly.  "  I  cannot  see  failure  anywhere  within  your 
sphere.  Have  I  not,  indeed,  shown  you  my  trust?" 

"  In  a  manner  so  generous  that  I  shall  never  forget 
it — never  fail  in  my  sense  of  gratitude,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  don't  spoil  me  like  that,"  she  said, 
with  a  pretty  smile.  "  Now,  how  will  you  have  your 
cup  of  tea  to-day  ?" 

"  I  will  have  you  drink  it,  to  the  success  of  the  work 
made  possible  by  a  kind  and  modest  woman." 

"  Now,  what  nonsense,"  she  said.  "  You  must  drink 
it  yourself.  You  need  it,  I  know.  Genevra,"  she  called 
to  the  girl,  who  was  passing  near  by  with  Miss  Mel- 
gand,  "  come  here  and  induce  Herr  Comanche  to  drink 
some  tea." 

Genevra  could  not  refuse  to  stop. 

"  But — I — really,  I  would  rather  not  interfere  with 
Herr  Comanche's  tastes,  or  inclinations,"  she  said.  "  A 
man  always  knows  what  he  wants,  so  much  better  than 
we." 

"  You  mean  they  think  they  know,  my  dear.  I  want 
122 


THE    DARK    HOURS 


you  to  sit  here  and  tempt  him.  He's  tired,  with  all  of 
his  working.  Miss  Melgand,  I'll  give  you  those  tickets 
now,  if  you'll  please  come  to  the  house  for  a  moment." 

She  arose  at  once.  Her  sprightly  manner  was  per- 
suasive. She  always  had  her  way.  She  walked  Miss 
Melgand  off,  and  Genevra  could  do  nothing  but  obey. 
She  sat  down,  her  heart  like  a  bird  suddenly  caught 
and  held  in  the  hand. 

"  How — will  you  have — your  tea?"  she  managed  to 
say,  without  looking  up. 

"  Any  way — the  easiest  way  to  mix  it,"  he  answered, 
a  little  hoarsely. 

The  easiest  way — the  quickest  way  to  mix  it.  He 
wanted  to  finish  an  unpleasant  bit  of  business.  She 
knew  it.  Oh,  if  only  she  could  hate  him!  She  did 
hate  him.  He  had  done  every  possible  thing  to  wound 
her.  She  bit  her  lip,  which  would  have  trembled.  She 
could  be  as  cold  and  disdainful  as  he — and  as  hateful ! 
She  poured  a  cup  of  the  brew,  without  either  cream  or 
sugar. 

"  I  couldn't  do  it  more  quickly,"  she  said,  as  she 
placed  it  where  he  could  take  it.  Then  without  real- 
izing how  it  would  sound  she  added,  "  I  hope  it  won't 
detain  you  long." 

He  forgot  what  his  own  remark  had  been,  which 
partially  induced  this  speech.  Therefore  the  poignancy 
of  her  words  was  the  more  complete.  For  a  moment, 

123 


THE    INEVITABLE 


however,  he  could  not  believe  she  had  actually  dis- 
missed him.  But  there  was  nothing  else  it  could  mean. 

"  It  shall  not,  since  you  wish  it,"  he  said,  in  his 
calm,  low  voice,  and  rising,  he  bowed.  "  I  shall  go  at 
once.  Good-day." 

She  looked  up,  startled,  and  saw  him  turn  away. 
His  profile  only  was  towards  her.  How  classical — 
how  beautiful  it  was!  It  fascinated,  held  her  en- 
thralled. Yet  she  noted  the  look  of  sadness  about  his 
eyes  and  the  weariness  written  on  his  face. 

A  cry  arose  to  her  lips — the  cry  of  her  heart,  but 
she  choked  it  back.  He  had  wanted  to  go;  he  had 
gone.  She  had  said — what  did  she  say? 

A  light  of  beseeching  blazed  in  her  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  then  it  died  away.  He  was  cruel.  He 
was  brutal,  to  treat  her  thus.  The  cup  of  tea  she  had 
poured  for  him  stood  there  untouched — refused. 

She  was  unaware  that  Lennox,  who  had  come  in 
time  to  witness  the  scene  between  herself  and  Roger, 
was  watching  her  narrowly  now.  As  through  a  haze 
she  saw  that  Gordon  met  Lady  Denby,  who  was  now 
returning  to  the  garden,  and  that  he  bade  her  good-by 
and  was  going.  Unable  to  bear  the  thought  of  being 
spoken  to  by  any  one,  she  left  the  table  at  once  and 
walked  quickly  away  to  the  farther  side  of  the  pear- 
trees  back  of  the  hedge. 

Lennox,  when  he  strolled  around  to  come  upon  her 
124 


THE    DARK    HOURS 


accidentally,  found  her  weeping,  in  anger,  and  yet  as 
if  her  heart  would  break.  He  knitted  his  brows,  but  he 
prudently  withdrew. 

It  stood  revealed — the  whole  situation.  She  loved 
Comanche.  He  had  felt  it  earlier;  he  knew  it  now. 
His  jealousy  had  made  itself  ready  before.  It  leaped 
upon  friendship  promptly.  This  thing  was  wholly 
unworthy  of  Comanche.  He  would  not  have  believed 
the  man  would  step  in  to  rob  him  thus. 

But  perhaps,  since  Genevra  it  was  who  was  vexed 
to  the  point  of  tears,  Comanche  was  not  so  much  to 
blame, — at  least  not  a  deliberate  robber.  She  cared  for 
him,  and  apparently  her  feelings  met  with  no  response. 
It  lay  all  with  Genevra.  Still,  if  Comanche  had  not 
come  where  she  was,  she  would  never  have  been  so 
foolish.  And  Comanche  had  asked  him  to  help  in 
making  the  "  Paradise  Lost"  a  triumph  and  himself 
a  lion  of  genius ! 


125 


X 

A    MAN'S   TEMPTATION 


HAVING  pounced  upon  friendship,  jealousy  clung 
to  its  prey.  When  Lennox  went  home  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  think  coherently  or  justly  of  Gordon's 
attitude  towards  Genevra.  If  she  loved  Comanche 
now,  she  would  doubtless,  in  the  way  of  all  sentimen- 
tal and  impressionable  women,  idolize  him  when  he 
should  stand  upon  the  pinnacle  of  such  a  success  that 
all  society  would  turn  to  do  him  homage. 

That  his  work  was  great  Lennox  believed,  nay,  felt 
and  knew.  He  had  rejoiced  in  its  power,  up  to  this 
moment,  for  was  not  Comanche,  in  a  manner,  his  own 
discovery?  Had  he  not  espoused  his  cause  and  intro- 
duced him  to  Lady  Denby?  This  made  the  present 
situation  all  the  more  galling. 

A  faithful,  generous  friend,  under  normal  condi- 
tions, Lennox  had  given  to  Gordon  as  sound  an  affec- 
tion and  as  honest  an  admiration  as  one  man  may  well 
extend  to  another.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  loved 
Genevra  in  this  straightforward,  honest  manner  of  his 
for  more  than  a  year.  That  she  liked  him  he  had  long 
believed.  That  she  loved  him  sufficiently  well  to  be- 
come his  wife  he  had  never  dared  as  yet  to  imagine. 
But  she  would  learn — she  must  some  day  respond  to 

126 


A    MAN'S    TEMPTATION 


his  never-failing  thoughtfulness  and  desire  to  make 
her  happy,  if  this  silly  business  with  Comanche  should 
not  ruin  everything. 

He  had  no  desire  to  drag  Comanche  down,  to  belittle 
his  coming  achievement,  but  thus  to  have  Genevra  re- 
garding the  man,  and  now  possibly  to  have  her  still 
further  wrought  upon  by  what  he  would  win  on  the 
following  night,  was  quite  too  much  for  a  man  to 
endure  with  complacency. 

Lennox  was  returning  home  early  even  now,  in 
response  to  a  promise  he  had  made  himself  that  he 
would  practice  once  again  for  an  hour  on  some  of  the 
passages  in  Comanche's  "  Paradise  Lost"  intrusted  to 
his  care  as  first  violin.  With  many  conflicting  emo- 
tions he  came  to  his  rooms,  and  mechanically  turned 
to  the  sheets  of  music.  He  looked  at  them  vaguely. 
Impatiently  he  walked  across  the  room.  Before  the 
window  he  halted,  and  with  hands  thrust  in  pockets 
stared  out  in  the  street,  but  with  a  vacant  gaze.  He 
had  half  a  mind  to  refuse  to  play  at  Comanche's  recital. 
To  beg  off — suddenly  to  contract  a  headache — would 
not  be  a  difficult  matter.  It  would  be  a  wretched  trick, 
he  knew,  but  his  place  could  be  filled. 

Across  his  mental  vision  then  came  the  look  he  could 
see  on  Comanche's  face — in  his  eyes — as  he  learned 
of  the  dastardly  desertion  at  this,  the  eleventh  hour. 
No!  He  could  not  turn  traitor  like  that.  Comanche 

127 


THE    INEVITABLE 


was  such  a  trusting,  lovable  fellow.  Damn  it !  a  man 
would  feel  himself  such  a  brute !  Moreover,  Comanche 
would  fill  the  vacancy,  if  he  did  desert.  Indeed,  one 
violin  would  hardly  be  missed.  There  were  scores  of 
men  who  could  play  his  part.  The  large  success  of  the 
composition  did  not  depend  on  so  insignificant  a  matter 
as  the  absence  or  presence  of  one  trained  musician. 

Returning  to  the  sheets  of  the  score  again,  he  took 
up  his  violin,  turned  a  laggard  string,  and  went  swiftly 
through  the  parts  with  which  he  felt  familiar. 

Thus  running  through  the  sheets,  fingering,  more 
than  actually  playing,  he  came  to  the  passage  which 
concerned  him  most.  Original  and  daring  to  the  last 
degree,  Comanche  had  employed  every  possible  means 
to  acquire  his  effects.  Not  infrequently  he  had  left 
the  whole  expression  to  a  single  instrument,  at  various 
points  throughout  his  composition.  It  was  one  of  these 
with  which  Lennox  was  working. 

Short  though  the  passage  was, — a  mere  trio  of 
phrases, — its  importance  was  complete.  It  was  a  slen- 
der thread  on  which  the  composer  had  dared  to  hang 
the  whole  fabric  of  his  work.  How  vital  it  was  Lennox 
fully  comprehended.  He  had  even  arisen  in  the  night 
to  try  it  again  and  again,  after  having  spent  an  hour 
upon  it  before  retiring,  so  much  did  the  notes  convey, 
so  eager  had  he  been  that  the  utmost  of  their  power 
should  fall  without  blemish  from  his  instrument. 

128 


A    MAN'S    TEMPTATION 


He  played  this  now.  He  worked  with  it,  felt  for  its 
subtleties.  Filled  as  his  mind  had  been  with  the  con- 
flict between  his  loyalty  and  his  jealousy,  his  thoughts 
this  evening  were  uncontrollable.  He  saw  the  notes 
which  Roger  had  written,  but  there  was  mockery  be- 
tween them.  The  mood  of  the  theme  ceased  to  be 
Gordon's;  it  was  his. 

Even  as  he  played,  some  devil  of  rebellion  raced 
through  his  brain.  He  sawed  at  his  violin  with  a 
savage  bow,  and  whipping  the  phrase  he  was  playing 
from  the  strings,  he  suddenly  fingered  a  few  mad  notes 
which  the  jealousy  on  him  provoked.  The  notes  were 
frivolous,  flippant,  yet  they  fitted  what  had  gone  before 
as  if  in  natural  sequence.  There  was  something  dia- 
bolical in  the  ease  with  which  he  had  foisted  in  these 
spurious  notes,  and  in  the  sickening  force  which  they 
had  to  pervert  the  whole  motif  of  the  composition 
and  to  bring  it  all  suddenly  down  to  the  cap-and-bells 
of  music. 

Lennox  stood  amazed  at  himself,  as  he  made  this 
discovery.  So  well  did  he  know  the  arts  of  composi- 
tion that  he  realized,  as  no  layman  could  possibly  have 
done,  the  power  for  havoc  which  this  accident  had 
placed  in  his  grasp.  So  near  did  sublimity  hang  to  the 
ludicrous  that  just  the  trifling  alteration  of  a  bar  could 
topple  the  whole  great  temple  of  beauty  from  its  place. 
Moreover  such  bathos  as  this  would  render  of  the 
9  129 


THE    INEVITABLE 


entire  thing  would  so  crash  upon  Comanche's  head 
that  he  would  never  be  able  to  rebuild  his  structure  in 
its  majesty.  He  would  stand  appalled.  He  would  lose 
control  of  his  orchestra.  He  would  go  to  pieces  and 
fail,  in  the  very  midst  of  his  triumph. 

The  thought  was  terrible  to  Lennox.  It  was  wild, 
absurd — impossible.  Yet  he  played  the  passage  again 
as  he  had  before,  and  it  sounded  more  fatally  flippant 
than  he  had  thought  at  first.  The  sweat  broke  out 
on  his  temples ;  his  heart  knocked  within  him  violently. 
He  went  to  the  window  on  his  tiptoes,  guiltily,  and 
looked  out  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  Comanche  was 
not  in  the  street  below,  listening.  Then  he  went  to 
his  door,  opened  it,  looked  out  in  the  hall,  and  closed 
it  again  without  a  sound. 

He  was  alone.  There  was  no  one  to  hear  him  do 
this  deed.  He  was  trembling ;  his  mouth  grew  parched 
as  he  came  to  where  the  sheet  of  music  lay.  He  could 
see  where  those  devil's  own  notes  would  spot  the  lines, 
if  he  wrote  them  in.  There  was  no  need  so  to  jot  them 
down.  He  could  play  them  without  such  a  guidance. 
An  accident,  a  moment  of  mental  aberation,  would 
explain  the  act.  It  was  such  a  trifling  matter — such 
an  easy  way  to  render  Comanche  less  god-like  in 
Genevra's  eyes. 

With  his  violin  beneath  his  chin  Lennox  tried  to  play 
the  passage  as  Roger  had  scored  it  on  the  paper.  He 

130 


A    MAN'S    TEMPTATION 


shook;  his  fingers  were  nerveless,  wet  with  perspira- 
tion. Once  more  he  played  those  interlarded  notes. 
He  placed  the  instrument  quickly  on  the  table  and 
leaned  against  the  mantel. 

It  was  all  Comanche's  fault — his  own  doing.  Why 
had  he  dared  to  trust  his  whole  great  theme  to  a  single 
violin?  It  was  a  musical  sword  of  Damocles,  swung 
from  a  filament  of  sound.  He  had  made  the  tempta- 
tion too  strong  to  be  resisted.  A  man  could  conquer 
himself  to  some  extent.  He,  Lennox,  might  have 
abandoned  the  whole  obligation  to  play  at  the  very 
last  minute.  He  had  resisted  that — but  this  was  so 
different.  This  was  fair.  There  was  love  and  war  to 
make  it  fair.  Every  man  must  take  care  of  himself! 
Lennox  knew  in  his  heart  that  the  injury  he  now  con- 
templated to  the  composition  would  prove  irreparable, 
— fatal  in  the  blow  it  would  strike.  He  could  not  abso- 
lutely resolve  to  do  this  dastardly  thing  which  lay  in 
his  power;  that  is  to  say,  he  did  not  admit  or  state  to 
himself  that  he  would  commit  this  murder  on  Co- 
manche's music,  but  he  knew  that  he  would  not  be 
able  to  play  that  passage  correctly. 

For  the  last  time  he  took  up  his  instrument.  Those 
notes  of  fiendish  ridicule — like  so  much  negro  patter- 
music — danced  mockingly  from  the  strings. 


131 


XI 

ROGER'S   RECITAL 


LIKE  the  inside  of  the  large  round  end  of  a  most 
prodigious  egg,  the  Royal  Albert  Hall's  interior  arched 
upward  to  a  vault  wherein  a  cluster  of  stars  would  not 
have  seemed  inappropriate.  Its  vastness  was  the  more 
impressive  for  the  throngs  upon  throngs  of  men  and 
women  so  held  and  belittled  in  its  spaciousness.  What 
a  dark,  breathing  mass  those  human  beings  made ! 

The  floor  of  the  hall  was  a  firmament  of  faces  in  a 
setting  of  black,  only  partially  broken  by  the  white  or 
vari-colored  gowns  of  the  ladies.  Above  them  the 
tiers  on  tiers  rose  upward  towards  the  vault  itself,  all 
of  them  so  crowded  that  the  brain  refused  to  take  in 
the  numbers. 

As  their  wealth  descended,  the  people  in  the  hall 
had  ascended.  But  even  the  topmost  gallery  was  filled. 
Many  persons  stood  behind  the  more  fortunate  holders 
of  seats.  It  is  amazing  what  thousands  of  Londoners 
deny  themselves  necessities  to  satisfy  their  craving  for 
music.  From  the  beggar  to  the  throne  they  are  a 
music-loving  people. 

From  his  place  of  vantage  behind  the  platform  Gor- 
don looked  out  upon  the  scene  presented  to  his  view. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  that  sense  of  awe 

132 


ROGER'S    RECITAL 


which  the  presence  of  thousands  of  one's  fellow-beings, 
concentrating  their  whole  attention  upon  himself,  must 
bring  inevitably  to  any  man.  He  was  pale,  but  his  face 
was  resolutely  calm.  His  features  had  taken  on  that 
re-chiselled  appearance,  so  refining  to  his  already 
classical  features,  which  great  emotion  always  pro- 
duced upon  his  countenance.  He  was  faultlessly 
dressed  and  gloved.  Among  the  men  of  his  orchestra 
he  was  not  only  tall,  but  he  was  obviously  masterful. 
His  deep-set  eyes  were  burning  with  the  suppressed 
fire  of  his  nature.  His  black  masses  of  hair,  crowned 
him  as  with  an  emblem  of  power. 

When  the  first  excitement  of  beholding  the  place 
so  filled  had  passed,  he  scanned  the  great,  confusing 
area  for  one  face, — Genevra's.  She  was  not  to  be 
seen.  Search  as  he  would,  he  could  see  neither 
herself  nor  Lady  Denby.  They  would  doubtless 
arrive  presently,  he  thought.  If  she  failed  to 
come, — ah,  well,  there  was  little  left  for  bitterness 
to  accomplish  now. 

When  he  turned  about  he  found  Algernon  Lennox, 
just  arrived.  The  man  was  pale;  his  gaze  faltered 
when  it  met  the  friendly  smile  in  Gordon's  eye.  Roger 
put  out  his  hand  and  Lennox  took  it  guiltily. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here  in  such  good  time,"  said 
Roger.  "  But  don't  be  nervous ;  everything  looks 
propitious.  We  ought  to  make  a  success." 

133 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Grand — house,"  Lennox  stammered.  "  Your  for- 
tune's— made." 

He  went  his  way  to  hang  up  his  hat  and  remove  his 
violin  from  its  case. 

The  nervousness  of  waiting  was  more  or  less  devel- 
oped in  all  the  men  behind  the  curtain.  They  walked 
about  uneasily.  Over  against  the  wall  stood  a  comical, 
bifurcated  figure,  all  match-legs  and  rounded  little 
body.  It  was  Fritz.  With  his  round,  hairless  head 
inclined  to  one  side  he  was  eying  Roger  so  wistfully, 
that  presently  Gordon  was  attracted  by  his  gaze.  He 
went  over  and  smiling  at  him  affectionately  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  All  right  ?"  said  he.    "  Feeling  up  to  the  mark  ?" 

"  I  am  so  happy  it  makes  me  knock  my  knees,"  said 
Fritz.  He  held  up  his  clarionet,  to  show  that  he  was 
ready  to  commence  forthwith.  "  When  are  we  at  it  ?" 
he  inquired. 

"  Soon,"  said  Roger.  "  There  is  the  lady  who  will 
sing  to  start  the  programme  along.  I  think  the  organ- 
ist is  just  about  ready  to  lead  you  all  to  the  platform." 

Presently,  indeed,  the  word  was  passed  and  his  many 
musicians  filed  out  and  assumed  their  places,  where- 
upon there  ensued  that  sawing  and  tuning  at  many 
strings  which  sets  the  heart  to  faster  beating  and  the 
senses  all  at  attention. 

Then  came  silence.  The  great  organ  pealed,  as  it 
i34 


ROGER'S    RECITAL 


voiced  a  thought  made  immortal  by  Beethoven,  and 
the  evening's  tension  had  commenced. 

In  a  generous  mood  and  with  appetites  whetted,  the 
audience  responded  heartily,  when  the  opening  per- 
former bowed.  They  welcomed  the  singer  who  had 
kindly  lent  her  services  to  making  the  entertainment 
more  complete,  and  later  they  permitted  her  departure 
with  reluctance.  A  hush  then  fell  upon  the  vast  assem- 
blage, and  Herr  Comanche  stepped  forth,  with  his 
active,  graceful  stride. 

A  second  of  stillness,  as  they  looked  upon  his  dark, 
intellectual  face,  held  his  beholders.  Their  burst  of 
welcoming  applause  was  the  more  spontaneous  and 
electrifying  for  this  brief  delay. 

Gordon  bowed.  He  bowed  again,  many  times.  He 
felt  that  he  had  his  sea  of  humanity  receptive  already. 
But  he  could  see  nothing,  the  lights  so  blinded  his  eyes. 
Genevra,  for  whom  he  had  no  time  to  search  again, 
was  sitting  so  close  that  he  had  glanced  beyond  her. 

What  litheness  his  movements  expressed  as  he 
stepped  to  his  stand !  The  silence  became  as  far 
extending  as  the  farthest  limits  of  the  hall.  He  raised 
his  baton  and  stood  for  a  second  immovable. 

Slowly,  so  slowly  that  its  downward  course  seemed 
at  first  an  illusion,  the  wand  of  power  descended. 

Far  away,  on  the  strings  of  a  harp,  a  faint,  ethereal 
strain  of  music  arose.  It  came;  it  went.  Intangible 

135 


THE    INEVITABLE 


as  perfume  of  sound  it  stole  on  the  senses  with  subtle 
beauty  that  stilled  the  very  heart,  so  eager  became  the 
ear  to  catch  the  strains. 

The  wand  of  enchantment,  apparently  drawing  forth 
the  music  from  a  source  unseen,  now  summoned  a 
second,  a  third,  and  yet  a  fourth  distant  harp  to  waft 
its  melody  hither.  A  low,  softened  note,  as  of  a  bugle 
sounding  from  the  very  empyrean,  made  a  glad  con- 
tribution to  the  theme.  The  violins  now  faintly  caught 
the  strangely  sweet  refrain  and  mingled  their  pean  of 
rejoicing  to  what  had  gone  before,  even  as  the  organ 
added  bugle  after  bugle,  faintly  and  amazingly  inter- 
weaving that  same  indefinable  motif.  The  'cellos,  the 
reeds,  and  the  brass,  aroused  so  faintly  that  the  en- 
trance of  their  tones  could  scarcely  have  been  detected, 
came  as  if  nearer  and  nearer  with  the  motif,  till  the 
great  hall  thrilled  with  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
fugue  so  unmistakably  interpreting  the  heavenly  choir, 
in  all  its  sublimity  of  joy  and  purity  immortal. 

The  gates  of  Paradise  itself  swung  wide  to  let  the 
music  through.  The  rustle  of  wings,  the  voices  of 
angels,  the  touch  divine  on  the  strings  of  harps, — all 
came  upon  the  breathless  world  and  lifted  men  to 
aspiration. 

Kindly,  encircling,  ennobling,  the  chorus  of  angels 
swept  downward  and  upward  and  all  about,  in  a  vol- 
ume sufficient  for  the  universe,  and  yet  with  a  melody 

136 


ROGER'S    RECITAL. 


so  soft,  so  intricately  enticing,  that  the  soul  came  forth 
and  yearned  to  partake  of  this  happiness  ineffable. 

Then  back  of  the  melody,  harsh,  yet  harmonious 
with  all  the  instruments,  came  a  fiendish  laugh,  a 
chuckle  of  jealousy, — Satan's  malevolence.  Bolder, 
louder  this  laughter  grew,  and  the  harps  shivered  fear- 
fully and  fled  to  where  their  expression  was  fainter. 
The  wondrous  beneficence  diminished.  The  laughter, 
the  taunting,  the  defiance  of  Satan  assumed  the  ascend- 
ancy. He  mocked  with  the  combined  voices  of  a  score 
of  instruments. 

A  note  as  of  wonder,  so  deep  as  to  be  unfathomable, 
sounded  through  even  Satan's  devilish  cogency  of 
utterance.  It  came  again,  more  near,  more  stern,  and 
yet  as  if  in  patience  still.  But  the  laughter  sounded 
such  an  arrogance  that  suddenly  all  the  thunders  of  the 
firmament  seemed  gathering  from  far  and  near,  in  one 
great  voice.  The  last  faint  notes  of  the  motif  of  the 
heavenly  choir  were  still  to  be  heard,  as  they  hastened 
away  from  the  scene  of  where  Satan,  the  great  accuser, 
would  fain  usurp  the  power  of  the  All  Jehovah  and 
fling  defiance  at  his  Master. 

Then  swift  and  terrible  were  the  diabolical  concen- 
trations of  his  power  where  this  Lucifer  made  ready 
for  his  battle.  But  more  thunderous,  more  awful  were 
the  slow-born  angers  of  the  Mighty  One. 

Sounding  its  piercing  flames  of  sound,  that  hurtled 
137 


ROGER'S    RECITAL 


madly  through  the  air,  the  potency  of  evil  commenced 
its  struggle  for  supremacy. 

In  the  utterance  of  all  created  space,  arrayed  against 
disturbers  of  the  laws  immutable,  the  answering  shock 
of  Omnipotence  presently  answered. 

With  shrieks,  with  screams  of  rage  and  hatred,  with 
fierce,  stubborn  clinging  to  his  confidence,  great  Satan 
fought. 

But  in  crashes  of  doom,  so  weighty  that  it  seemed 
the  stars  themselves  fell  crushingly  down,  the  sentence 
of  banishment  pealed  from  the  fearful  realms  of 
Majesty. 

Then  with  a  mort-cry  shivering  through  eternity, 
was  Satan  beaten  backward  and  downward,  till  crash 
on  crash  drowned  out  his  terrible  laughter  and  a 
mighty  roar  and  rush  of  air  went  with  him  as  he 
plunged  to  the  bottomless  depths. 

There  came  a  hush,  a  note  of  sorrow,  in  the  voice 
of  the  All  Pitiful,  and  heaven  had  closed  its  gates. 

This  was  the  end  of  the  introduction.  Breathlessly 
the  auditors  sank  back  in  their  seats.  Then,  when  a 
moment  had  somewhat  cleared  the  spell,  they  paid 
their  tribute  to  a  master. 


138 


XII 

THE    CLIMAX 


THE  pause  was  but  brief  till  the  opening  bars  of  the 
first  part  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  hall,  yet  as  he  faced  his  auditors,  Herr  Comanche 
beheld  Genevra's  face  at  last.  It  was  white,  eager, 
tense  with  emotions.  His  heart  leaped  in  his  breast 
as  he  found  her  there  so  near. 

He  was  nervous  no  longer.  He  was  rapt  in  the 
execution  of  his  theme.  How  the  audience  was  receiv- 
ing the  work  he  knew  not,  nor  did  he  care.  He  feared 
the  work  was  not  so  great  as  he  had  heretofore  sup- 
posed, or  hoped.  Therefore  he  gave  the  full  sum  of 
his  energy,  his  very  vitality,  to  bring  forth  the  utmost 
feeling  and  art  in  every  man  about  him. 

As  the  baton  fell  it  touched  into  life  a  scene  of  Eden, 
second  only  in  beauty  to  his  music-pictured  heaven 
itself.  From  an  earthly  point  of  view  it  was  almost 
more  replete  with  loveliness.  Its  hum  of  bees,  its 
susurrus  of  leaves  all  rustling  in  a  warm,  summer 
zephyr,  its  songs  of  birds  and  tinkle  of  rills,  conveyed 
a  more  sensuous  beauty  than  that  of  heaven.  And 
with  this  permeating  all  its  scene,  the  faint,  far  echo 
of  the  motif  of  the  heavenly  choir  seemed  as  a  perfume 
of  the  flowers  that  grew  in  the  garden.  This  motif,  as  it 

139 


THE    INEVITABLE 


hovered  over  all  the  place  of  delights,  seemed  also 
to  represent  the  breath  of  divinity,  symbolizing  the 
guardian  spirit  which  made  the  place  the  Paradise  it 
was. 

The  beauties  now  became  manifest  in  runes  that 
crept  one  upon  another,  as  if  the  heaven-blessed  mor- 
tals who  dwelt  therein  were  wandering  hand  in  hand 
from  one  surpassing  feature  to  the  next.  The  blos- 
soms from  the  trees  clashed  like  soft,  pink  cymbals. 
The  trees  were  lyres  whereon  the  breeze  made  melody. 
The  grass,  as  it  grew  upward,  struck  lightly  every  note 
in  Eden's  diapason.  The  drops  of  water  fell  in  caves, 
on  bells  of  agate  till  they  faintly  chimed. 

The  spell  of  peace  and  beauty  grew  till  all  that  was 
sensuous  in  human  veins  yearned  gaspingly  for  yet 
new  senses  to  be  played  upon. 

No  more  had  this  thirst  of  an  appetite  created  by 
indulgence  so  increased,  than  the  evil  chuckle  of  Satan 
returned  to  underly  the  symphony.  Winding  and  coil- 
ing in  and  out,  this  motif  came,  till  something  of 
beauty  supernal  retired,  to  give  its  place  to  the  visitor, 
come  like  a  snake  to  enter  the  realm  of  wholesome 
pleasures. 

Afraid,  yet  curious,  the  musical  themes  retreated, 
approached  and  lingered  at  last  where  Lucifer  laughed 
his  temptations.  He  held  them  enthralled  by  the  won- 
der of  his  story;  he  swayed  them,  urged  them  to  a 

140 


THE    CLIMAX 


recklessness  of  sensuous  indulgence.  He  taunted,  de- 
rided, scorned  their  fears,  and  mocked  their  Creator. 

With  shame  at  first,  and  then  more  boldly,  the  voices 
in  Eden  laughed  at  last  with  the  tempter.  During  a 
pause,  as  if  in  the  final  second  of  hesitation,  the  motif 
of  the  heavenly  choir  was  heard  once  more,  as  it  died 
away  in  the  distance  and  left  a  wail  of  despair  to  con- 
tend alone  against  all  that  soulless  laughter. 

Most  sinuously  winding  in  once  more,  the  Lucifer 
motif  led  the  way  to  the  fruit  forbidden.  In  the  hush 
of  Satan's  laughter,  a  shiver  of  new,  strange  ecstasies 
commenced.  A  woman's  coaxing  and  tempting  slipped 
forth  from  the  violins  to  join  with  the  voices  of  the 
'cellos,  where  Satan  laughed  more  loudly  with  his 
promises  of  power. 

The  thrill  that  shot  through  Adam  then  was  won- 
derful. Strong,  animal,  aggressive,  it  carried  all  be- 
fore it,  till  something  akin  to  a  fear  was  commingled 
with  the  far  more  timid,  yet  persistent  appetite  of  the 
senses  awakened  in  his  temptress.  Under  and  over 
all  a  theme  of  growing  passion  swelled  and  rose  and 
fanned  the  air  with  the  heat  that  coursed  with  the  fire 
of  youth  unbridled  in  its  lust  of  life. 

Voluptuous,  inflaming  to  the  brain  and  blood,  the 
music  blended  every  force,  every  beauty  at  command, 
in  the  nuptials  of  abandonment  to  joy.  The  bird- 
songs  partook  of  the  wanton  indulgence  in  pleasure. 

141 


THE    INEVITABLE 


The  bees  were  all  humming  of  passion  that  turned  to 
scarlet  the  petals  where  they  touched.  The  wind  was 
a  hot,  quick  breath  that  carried  the  pollen  of  love  from 
blossom  to  blossom. 

But,  breaking  through  the  mad  expression  of  the 
earthly  transports,  came  the  motif,  half  anger,  half 
sorrow,  where  the  gates  of  heaven  above  had  opened 
once  again,  to  let  out  the  angel  of  vengeance,  sent  so 
reluctantly  downward  by  the  voice  that  commanded  all 
power. 

The  culmination  of  Eden's  bliss  broke  like  a  rush  of 
white-hot  floods,  where  music  thrilled  and  trembled, 
rose  to  a  height  unthinkable,  sank  into  ecstasy  un- 
speakable, and  ended. 

The  breaths  that  were  held  escaped  from  a  thousand 
pairs  of  lips  in  that  spell-bound  audience.  The  mad- 
ness calmed,  the  cheeks  that  had  flushed  so  red  slowly 
paled.  A  storm  of  applause  swept  upward  till  the  hall 
was  thundering  at  the  end  of  part  one  of  the  music. 

******* 

Not  for  long  did  Gordon  permit  the  ardor  in  his 
auditors  to  cool.  He  had  labored  unremittingly  him- 
self, he  was  now  unsparing  of  audience  and  orchestra 
as  well. 

His  baton  reproduced,  for  the  opening  of  part  two, 
the  last  breathless  trembling,  where  forbidden  joy  in 
Eden  found  itself  sated,  and  Lucifer,  laughing  at  his 

142 


THE    CLIMAX 


deed  accomplished,  glided  tortuously  away.  His  re- 
treat was  taken  step  by  step  before  the  approach  of  a 
stern,  yet  sorrowing  Presence,  where  the  level  tones  of 
the  angel  of  retribution  descended  on  the  mad  delights 
of  the  Garden. 

The  twitter  of  birds  ceased  in  awe.  The  bees  no 
longer  hummed.  In  the  trees  the  zephyr  stirred  not  a 
leaf.  The  calm  was  one  in  which  the  wantons  of  the 
garden  whispered  in  fear,  as  the  stern,  cold  voice  bade 
them,  once,  twice,  thrice,  stand  forth  for  judgment. 

A  moan  of  dread,  a  chattered  utterance  of  guilt, 
expressed  the  tangible  dread  which  had  come  upon  the 
place  of  beauties. 

The  summons  of  that  all-compelling  voice,  where 
the  minister  of  heaven's  dreadful  power  commanded 
all  things  living  in  that  garden  to  be  gone,  was  sub- 
limely calm,  simple,  and  comprehensible.  It  awed;  it 
enthralled  the  senses. 

Strangely  in  contrast  came  again  that  motif  of  coax- 
ing, coquetting,  as  if  a  very  siren  would  bribe  the 
avenging  angel  with  a  kiss,  to  leave  them  where  they 
were. 

The  end  of  this  theme,  of  the  wanton  ashamed,  was 
thrice  more  terrible  than  even  that  awful  voice  that 
again  repeated,  "  Go !" 

A  wail  for  mercy,  a  shiver  of  the  chill  they  could 
feel  approaching,  arose,  as  if  to  drown  that  dread 


THE    INEVITABLE 


injunction  of  banishment.  Contrition,  repentance,  the 
first  hysterical  promises  of  the  human  race,  never, 
never  again  to  commit  a  deed  of  folly,  contended 
against  that  utterance  of  doom.  But  like  the  tolling 
of  the  bell  of  finality,  that  motif  from  heaven,  half 
sorrowful,  but  always  implacable,  assumed  such  di- 
mensions that  nothing  could  rise  above  it  to  be 
heard. 

A  note  of  anguish  sounded  where  the  fallen,  in  fear 
and  absolute  humiliation,  sped  out  through  the  gates, 
with  heads  hung  low  in  shame.  Then  Eve  shrilly 
screamed  as  she  darted  back  once  more,  still  in  the 
hope  of  pardon,  only  to  hear  the  clangor  of  the  barriers 
that  closed,  and  the  sudden  cutting  off  of  all  those 
faint  songs  of  Eden's  beauty. 

Above  the  storm  that  suddenly  swept  upon  the  pair, 
thus  outcast  in  the  wilds,  the  angel's  voice  drove  them 
farther  and  farther  from  the  Paradise  they  had  sacri- 
ficed forever.  The  wails  of  the  wind,  the  swaying  of 
branches,  the  slash  of  the  rain  upon  their  naked  bodies, 
made  the  theme  a  wild  and  vivid  thing.  The  breath- 
lessness  of  the  two  that  ran  and  ran,  never  able  to 
escape  either  from  the  voice  of  condemnation  or  the 
laughter  of  Lucifer,  was  conveyed  powerfully.  The 
imagination  pictured  the  darksome  woods,  the  bram- 
bles, the  lurid  sky,  and  the  dens  of  prowling  beasts, 
where  the  sinners  were  lost  in  the  wilderness. 

144 


THE    CLIMAX 


It  was  when  they  were  weary,  torn,  and  suffering 
hunger,  that  despair  came  inevitably  upon  the  two. 
And  as  if  the  woman  were  the  first  to  realize  the 
boundless  beauties  of  that  heritage  from  heaven, 
lost  beyond  all  human  power  of  redemption,  a  single 
violin  wailed  forth  her  unutterable  woe,  when  the 
storm  had  left  them  stark  and  abandoned  of  their 
Maker. 

This  was  the  passage  left  to  Lennox  alone.  He 
knew  the  opportunity  he  had  waited  for  had  come. 
This  woe  was  the  heart-cry  in  which  all  that  had  gone 
before  had  its  termination — its  significance. 

Comanche  had  hushed  every  instrument  there,  as 
if  he  played  upon  them  all  himself.  His  power  had 
been  tremendous.  His  orchestra  had  bent  to  him, 
risen  to  his  beckoning,  swayed  with  his  every  emotion. 
He  leaned  far  out  towards  Lennox  now.  The  agony 
of  the  suffering  two  from  Eden  was  on  his  face.  In 
his  eyes  burned  a  hopelessness  unfathomable. 

"  Now — now !"  he  seemed  to  be  urging,  as  he  looked 
upon  the  first  violin. 

Something  gave  way  in  Lennox's  brain.  He  played 
with  a  passion,  a  power  he  had  never  before  attained. 
His  treacherous  purpose,  his  jealousy,  everything  fled 
from  him,  leaving  his  heart  almost  still,  in  his  re- 
kindled love  for  his  friend.  He  played  what  he  saw, 
— he  forgot  there  could  be  a  note  of  frivolity  substi- 
10  145 


THE    INEVITABLE 


tuted.  He  was  lifted  out  of  himself,  to  a  something 
sublime,  as  he  sounded  that  anguish  wrung  from  a 
soul  that  had  lost  its  paradise. 

He  sank  in  his  chair,  undone,  when  the  motif  was 
caught  by  string  after  string  to  be  woven  into  all  of 
the  tale  that  revealed  those  wanderers  from  the  Gar- 
den tracking  mindlessly  onward,  in  their  agony,  on 
their  ever-mocking  search  for  the  gates  that  led  to  what 
they  had  lost. 

And  so  the  motif  continued,  with  the  music's  story 
of  those  days  on  days  of  despair.  It  clung  to  the 
voice  of  the  woman  through  all  her  travail,  when  the 
first-born  son  was  given  in  her  keeping.  It  was  when 
she  beheld  this  child,  in  all  its  innocence,  that  her 
greatest  heart-sorrow  broke  from  her  lips. 

Once  again  the  composer  had  voiced  her  emotion 
with  a  single  instrument.  To  the  faithful  Fritz,  in 
whose  clarionet  he  had  measureless  confidence,  Roger 
had  intrusted  the  maternal  woe  of  Eve.  Roger  was 
trembling  with  emotion  himself,  as  the  voices  of  all 
the  instruments  ceased  and  slowly  he  motioned  for 
this,  her  moaning  cry. 

There  came  a  pause.  Fritz  was  looking  at  him  out 
of  eyes  that  streamed.  He  tried  to  play;  he  tried  to 
choke  back  all  that  he  felt ;  then  a  note  like  a  great  sob 
broke  from  his  instrument. 

It  was  terribly  poignant.  A  sound  of  weeping  from 
146 


THE    CLIMAX 


someone  in  the  hall  seemed  an  echo  of  the  woe  of 
Eve,  come  down  through  the  ages. 

The  'cellos,  the  violins,  the  harps  took  up  the  theme 
again,  and  on  it  went  with  the  tale  of  the  earth's 
supremest  anguish. 

A  ceaseless  prayer  for  the  forgiveness  of  her  sons; 
a  croon  ineffably  pitiful,  when  she  came  upon  the  body 
of  Abel ;  a  longing  for  death  before  her  time, — all 
these  in  their  sequence,  told  of  an  anguish  in  Eve  which 
only  a  heart  which  had  suffered  could  have  conceived. 
Her  woe  became  immortalized  in  the  sob  of  the  rain, 
the  moan  of  the  sea,  the  wail  of  the  wind, — and  so  it 
faded,  faded  from  the  ear  of  man. 

Then  at  the  end  came  again  that  faint,  chaste  motif 
of  the  heavenly  choir,  distant,  indefinable,  not  to  be 
traced  to  its  source,  but  yet  like  a  ray  of  hope  towards 
which,  howsoever  blindly,  despair  could  grope. 

When  the  last  dying  note  had  sounded,  the  celestial 
theme  was  the  thing  that  remained,  as  a  fragrance — 
the  last  to  linger  in  the  heart  and  memory — and  so  it 
was  done. 

******* 

In  the  stillness  which  followed,  a  sound  where  a 
woman  in  the  topmost  gallery  softly  cried  came  dis- 
tinctly. Weeping  heart-brokenly,  women  still  leaned 
forward  in  their  seats,  aware  that  Comanche  was 
shaken  with  emotion  he  could  not  wholly  repress. 

i47 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Then,  to  conceal  their  wrought-up  feelings,  the  men 
suddenly  created  a  deafening  uproar  of  applause,  under 
cover  of  which  the  women  sobbed  and  rose  to  their 
feet,  half  hysterically  calling  out  their  bravos  and  mop- 
ping their  eyes,  in  order  at  all  to  behold  the  man  whose 
art  had  so  broken  their  hearts. 

Wave  on  wave  of  tumultuous  cheering,  applauding, 
and  cries  of  "  Bravo !"  reverberated  through  the  house. 
On  the  floor  and  in  the  galleries  men  and  women 
sprang  to  their  feet  with  one  accord.  It  seemed  as 
if  they  would  never  cease,  and  that  Gordon  would 
never  be  permitted  to  bow  his  last  acknowledgment 
of  their  tribute. 

In  the  thunder  of  it  all,  with  the  spectacle  of  fren- 
zied, crying  people  about  him,  he  saw  but  one  face 
and  heard  but  one  voice. 

Genevra  had  risen,  where  she  sat  so  near, — the 
sweet,  impulsive  Genevra  he  knew  from  that  time  so 
long  ago,  the  same  little  girl  at  last,  for  whom  he 
singly  had  played  before,  even  as  he  had  played  his 
whole  orchestra  to-night. 

And,  as  once  in  the  dear  past  of  dreams,  she  cried 
out,  from  her  heart, — 

"Oh,  Roger!    Oh,  Roger!" 


148 


XIII 

AFTER   TWENTY-FOUR   YEARS 


WHEN  everything  else  that  is  sweet  on  earth  has 
been  tasted,  love  will  be  found  the  sweetest  of  them 
all.  Triumph,  huzzas,  emotions  stirred,  the  guerdon 
of  laurel  thrust  tumultuously  upon  his  brow, — all  sank 
to  second  place  in  the  instant  that  Gordon  realized  that 
after  all  Genevra  loved  him. 

The  intoxication  of  success  would  pass,  was  passing 
now,  but  the  joy  of  love  was  a  wine  that  coursed 
through  the  veins  forever.  It  was  kind,  it  was  splen- 
did of  fate,  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  pluck  the 
wreath  bestowed  for  a  great  or  a  worthy  achievement, 
but  he  thanked  her  most  for  Genevra's  look  and  her 
one  little  cry. 

That  was  all  he  had  wanted.  It  was  all  that  the 
time  and  the  place  had  permitted.  In  the  rush  upon 
him  of  the  friends  entitled  to  overwhelm  him  then 
and  there  with  extravagant  congratulations  he  had 
seen  Genevra  but  once.  The  joy  in  her  eyes,  as  their 
look  of  understanding  leaped  across  the  intervening 
space,  was  an  elixir  to  his  heart  even  in  the  morning, 
after  all  the  confusion  had  passed,  like  a  dream  of 
things  incredible.  Of  his  final  escape  from  the  hall, 
of  all  the  partings,  invitations,  praises,  and  even  of 

149 


THE    INEVITABLE 


his  coming  home,  he  had  but  a  dim,  confusing  mem- 
ory. Everything  was  unreal,  save  that  look  in  Ge- 
nevra's  eyes  and  that  note  from  her  lips. 

It  was  ended.  He  was  exhausted,  mentally  and 
physically.  He  was  sitting  quietly  in  a  chair,  in  his 
dressing-gown,  leaning  back  passively  and  thinking 
it  over.  The  papers  lay  beside  him  on  the  table,  but 
as  yet  he  had  not  so  much  as  opened  one.  In  a  little 
heap  near  at  hand  were  the  letters  which  the  post  had 
brought  him.  He  noted  among  them  a  long,  heavy 
envelope,  spotted  with  American  stamps.  He  knew 
that  it  came  from  Doctor  Pingle,  but  in  his  lassitude 
he  took  no  immediate  interest,  even  in  this.  Such  a 
peace  had  stolen  on  his  heart  as  he  had  not  enjoyed 
for  years.  Genevra  was  found. 

He  wondered  at  last  if  his  apparent  success  with 
his  composition  would  prove  a  substantial  thing.  Had 
the  praises  influenced  Genevra,  with  the  others?  He 
hoped  not.  He  felt  that  this  could  not  be  so.  His 
playing  once,  with  one  ancient  tree-stump  for  a  'cello, 
with  no  one  about  to  applaud  him,  had  won  her  little 
heart-cry  from  her  lips.  Before  even  that,  she  had 
placed  her  hand  confidingly  in  his.  And  later,  how 
bravely  she  had  come  to  save  his  life! 

No,  he  could  not  believe  she  had  cared  so  much 
for  the  praises  bestowed  by  his  audience.  Yet  the 
place  he  would  occupy  henceforth  would  be  determined 

150 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR    YEARS 

in  a  measure  by  something  more  judicial  than  a  chorus 
of  bravos ;  wherefore,  criticism  yet  held  somewhat  of 
the  power  of  the  determining  vote. 

He  took  up  the  paper  that  moulded  opinions  for 
London's  upper  classes.  When  he  found  two  columns 
devoted  to  "  Paradise  Lost,"  he  knew  his  laurels  were 
secure. 

"  Not  the  least  remarkable  feature  of  this  remark- 
able performance,"  he  read,  "  was  the  extraordinary 
leading  of  this  new  composer.  Herr  Comanche  exer- 
cised a  wonderful  power  over  every  instrument.  The 
veriest  novice  could  not  but  feel  that  the  leader  was 
personally  responsible  for  every  tone,  every  note  pro- 
duced. By  what  magic  he  instilled  into  every  per- 
former such  intensity  of  feeling  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say.  The  man  must  possess  a  temperament  not 
only  of  infinite  depth  and  refinement,  but  also,  of  enor- 
mous dynamic  force.  A  dozen  times  he  drew  his  audi- 
tors half  to  their  feet,  so  deeply  did  he  make  them  feel 
the  emotions  which  his  music  portrayed.  .  .  .  We  are 
still  too  amazed  to  venture  a  word  of  criticism  of  the 
daringly  original  treatment  which  the  whole  great 
theme  received.  Not  a  canon  of  composition  was 
violated,  and  yet  not  a  canon  was  strictly  obeyed,  in 
Comanche's  work.  The  man's  genius  is  remarkable. 
In  his  fugues  he  awakens  a  thousand  brain-cells  of 
appreciation  in  the  music-lover,  which  such  a  lover 

151 


THE    INEVITABLE 


never  before  was  aware  he  possessed.  .  .  .  He  rav- 
ishes the  senses,  so  insidious  are  the  beauties  of  his 
music  of  passion,  but  when  he  has  told  the  tale  of 
the  '  wages  of  sin,'  the  woe  that  he  voices  is  terrible. 
.  .  .  We  welcome  a  genius  whose  thought  is  at  once 
profound,  exquisitely  poetical,  and  withal  sublimely 
wholesome." 

A  scond  paper  was  less  dignified.  "  When  '  Para- 
dise' was  '  lost'  last  night,"  it  said,  "  there  was  noth- 
ing left  for  the  women — and  some  of  the  men — to 
do  but  weep.  By  Jove !  how  did  he  do  it  ?  The  man 
is  a  wizard.  Personal  magnetism  had,  no  doubt,  much 
to  do  with  the  ease  with  which  he  juggled  with  hearts 
and  souls,  but  the  music  was  unquestionably  good, 
Perhaps  it  was  more  than  good.  It  was  startling, 
certainly,  and  of  the  vintage  of  exceptional  inspiration. 
I  was  not  prepared  to  see  a  man  of  so  dark  a  counte- 
nance, even  after  the  silly  rumor  that  a  certain  lady, 
high  in  social  circles,  had  made  a  protege  of  an  Afri- 
can. Herr  Comanche  is  unmistakably  of  the  Red- 
Indian  lineage,  which  his  name  would  indicate,  and 
which  his  own  confession  renders  certain.  It  is  a 
matter  of  gratification,  to  me  at  least,  that  Comanche 
is  not  a  negro.  I  have  always  maintained  that  the 
negro,  howsoever  diluted  the  strain  may  be  by  a  nobler 
blood,  is  a  cheap  person,  incapable  of  sublimity  in  any- 
thing so  lofty  as  pure  musical  expression.  Comanche's 

152 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR    YEARS 

music  approaches,  if  it  does  not,  indeed,  attain,  the 
sublime.  His  audacity — for  such  originality  is  posi- 
tively audacious — is  yet  another  indication  of  his  an- 
cestry. No  noble  red  man  was  ever  more  untram- 
melled than  this  singularly  forceful  young  man,  who 
raised  our  hair  last  night,  and  might  have  scalped  us 
with  impunity  in  the  trance  in  which  he  held  us  when- 
soever he  listed." 

Gordon  found  out  things  about  himself  and  his  work 
which  he  would  never  have  so  much  as  suspected, 
had  the  papers  ignored  him.  He  found  himself  dis- 
sected, mentally  and  morally;  he  found  out  exactly 
what  influence  the  poet  Milton  had  exercised  upon  his 
mind.  One  of  the  critics  had  the  temerity  to  state  how 
the  composer's  effects  had  been  produced.  His  article, 
had  it  been  but  a  trifle  more  definite,  would  have  made 
an  excellent  guide  to  successful  composition  and  the 
short-cut  to  fame. 

He  laid  the  papers  down  at  last,  satisfied,  glutted, 
in  fact,  with  praise.  His  work  had  created  a  genuine 
sensation.  There  are  many  things  which  are  cloyingly 
sweet,  but  none  more  so  than  fulsome  blandishment 
in  printer's  ink.  Glad  of  anything,  presently,  to  exer- 
cise a  new  line  of  thought,  he  opened  his  letters,  re- 
serving as  ever  the  best  for  the  last. 

For  the  greater  part,  the  dainty  little  envelopes  con- 
tained invitations  which  must  have  been  written  after 

153 


THE    INEVITABLE 


his  recital  had  ended.  There  was  one  from  Lady 
Denby.  "If  not  too  weary,  come  to  see  me  in  the 
afternoon,"  she  had  written.  "  Perhaps  we  shall  go 
for  a  drive,  you  and  Genevra  and  I,  for  I  think  you 
need  a  bit  of  rest  and  sunshine  after  all  your  work. 
I  shall  look  for  you  surely  by  three." 

His  heart  turned  over  as  his  eyes  beheld  the  name 
of  Genevra  penned  upon  the  paper.  He  kissed  the 
sheet  and  pressed  it  fervently  against  his  cheek.  He 
arose  and  walked  the  room  excitedly.  He  could 
scarcely  contain  himself  till  three  o'clock.  At  last! 
Genevra  found  at  last !  He  could  hardly  believe  it. 

Fevered  with  all  the  mad  thoughts  in  his  brain, — 
of  what  he  would  say  and  what  she  would  answer 
when  they  found  each  other  alone, — he  continued 
to  pace  the  floor  with  that  crushed  letter  in  his 
hand. 

Calm  again,  after  a  time,  he  opened  what  remained 
of  his  letters,  coming  thus  upon  the  bulky  missive  ad- 
dressed in  the  well-known  chirography  of  Doctor 
Pingle. 

The  weight  of  the  packet  arrested  his  attention. 
He  looked  it  over  curiously.  In  the  corner  was 
written  "  Many  happy  returns."  Then  a  something 
momentarily  stopped  his  heart.  His  birthday — his 
twenty-fourth  birthday — had  passed  him  by  three  days 
before,  and  he  had  forgotten  it  utterly.  Doctor  Pingle 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR   YEARS 

had  sent  him  that  bundle  of  documents  left  by  his 
father, — the  explanation  of — everything! 

A  strange  feeling  of  excitement,  and  almost  of 
dread,  came  upon  him.  The  unknown  alarms  so 
vaguely,  so  subtly.  He  had  yearned  to  know  what 
these  papers  contained,  and  now  that  he  had  them  in 
his  hands  he  almost  feared  to  see  them. 

He  had  lived  so  many  years  without  this  knowledge 
of  what  he  was,  that  his  habit  of  life  was  to  select 
what  he  himself  preferred  to  be.  He  had  known 
neither  father  nor  mother ;  he  had  therefore  fashioned 
himself  only  with  the  aid  and  sympathy  of  Doctor 
Pingle.  His  parents  had  abandoned  their  rights  of 
guidance;  he  had  assumed  them  all  for  himself.  It 
seemed  for  a  moment  now  as  if  some  word  of  au- 
thority stepped  in  to  claim  him,  after  his  own  work 
and  efforts  had  been  crowned  with  achievement.  And 
yet  he  had  so  wanted  to  know  who  and  what  he  was, 
— to  have  the  matter  definitely  settled  in  his  mind. 
What  line  of  the  Indians  was  it  by  which  he  had  come 
to  possess  a  face  so  dark  ?  This  was  a  matter  on  which 
he  had  speculated  so  often  that  now  the  wonder  of 
being  placed  in  a  position  to  know  made  him  tremble 
with  excitement. 

He  broke  the  package  and  drew  forth  the  doctor's 
accompanying  letter  and  the  sealed  envelope  within. 

"  I  send  the  enclosed  in  conformity  with  your  wishes, 
155 


THE    INEVITABLE 


lad,"  he  read,  "  and  with  a  sense  of  awakening  to 
the  fact  that  you  are  now  a  man,  and  no  longer  the 
boy  I  sent  away.  You  will  read  what  your  papers 
contain  as  a  man  of  settled  judgment,  and  for  this 
I  am  glad.  Judge  as  unharshly  as  you  can,  for  you 
would  never  have  been  my  own  lad  had  not  fate  and 
motives  not  altogether  explicable  made  you  otherwise 
parentless  at  an  age  so  tender." 

The  enclosed  envelope  was  addressed  in  a  writing 
he  had  never  seen  before  to  "  Master  Roger  Gordon. 
In  the  trust  of  Doctor  Pingle.  To  be  kept  until  Master 
Gordon's  twenty-fourth  birthday,  and  then  handed 
over  to  him  to  read." 

With  fingers  not  at  all  steady,  Roger  broke  into  the 
envelope  and  drew  forth  two  papers,  neither  of  them 
bulky.  The  first  was  commercial,  a  certificate  of  de- 
posit, granted  to  a  George  Gordon,  by  a  bank  of  San 
Francisco.  The  amount  deposited  was  ten  thousand 
dollars,  which  sum,  with  interest  at  four  per  cent,  per 
annum,  was,  by  agreement  signed  at  the  bottom,  to 
be  payable  to  Roger  Gordon,  on  demand,  at  any  time 
after  his  twenty-fourth  birthday. 

Roger  read  this  through,  not  without  emotion.  Ten 
thousand  dollars  deposited  to  his  credit  twenty-four 
years  ago  meant  a  small  fortune,  awaiting  his  order. 
What  manner  of  father  had  he  been  who  could  thus 
have  provided  for  a  child  that  might  not  live,  and  who 

156 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR    YEARS 

could  then  give  that  child  away,  abandon  him  utterly, 
and  never  more  appear,  either  to  see  or  to  claim  him  ? 

He  laid  the  sheet  of  paper  upon  the  table,  before 
him,  staring  at  it  dumbly.  At  length  he  remembered 
that  the  more  explanatory  document  was  still  to  be 
read.  He  opened  it,  folded  back  its  creases  and  found 
it  written  in  a  strong,  round  hand,  with  an  ink  which 
had  faded  to  a  rusty  brown.  He  read, — 

"  MY  DEAR  LITTLE  SON, — I  am  a.  weak  man,  and 
God  forgive  me  that  admits  it,  and  you  will  often 
think  the  same  of  me  and  know  I  must  have  been  a 
weak  man,  or  I  would  never  do  what  I  am  letting  her 
make  me  do,  and  going  away  and  leave  you,  little 
helpless  son  that  I  love  so  dearly.  But  I  am  fixing  up 
my  money  so  that  you  will  have  nearly  all  I  have 
left  now,  and  I  hope  it  will  do  you  more  good  than 
it  did  me,  and  this  letter  which  will  tell  you  these 
things  which  you  may  want  to  know  and  which  you 
shall  know,  if  you  want  to. 

"  I  ran  away  with  your  mother  from  White  Plains, 
New  York,  about  nine  months  ago,  or  a  little  more, 
and  we  got  married  by  the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and 
her  name  was  Bertha  Neuville,  and  she  was  so  beauti- 
ful that  she  made  me  crazy,  and  she  does  it  yet,  and 
I  can't  help  it;  and  that  is  why  I  can't  help  going 
away  and  leaving  you  with  Doctor  Pingle,  because 


THE    INEVITABLE 


she  wants  me  to  and  says  I  must,  and  God  forgive  me, 
for  I  do  love  my  little  son.  She  ran  away  with  me 
because  her  father  opposed  me  coming  to  see  her, 
and  we  heard  that  he  died,  and  I  think  of  a  broken 
heart,  which  makes  me  sorry,  indeed,  for  he  was  a 
good  man  and  a  proud  gentleman,  and  he  spoiled  her 
and  so  did  everybody  else,  so  she  was  not  very  thought- 
ful of  anybody  else  and  wanted  nice  things  all  the  time, 
and  pretty  words  said  to  her  which  a  man  cannot  help 
saying,  for  she  is  so  beautiful. 

"  When  we  ran  away  we  went  everywhere,  having 
a  grand  time  and  spending  our  money,  all  but  what  I 
have  left  you,  my  dear  little  baby  boy,  in  the  bank 
where  you  will  get  it  some  day,  if  you  live  to  be  a 
man  of  twenty-four  years  old,  and  I  am  fixing  it  that 
way  so  you  will  not  be  such  a  silly  man  as  I  have 
been,  as  I  am  only  twenty-two,  and  I  do  not  think 
any  man  gets  his  senses  right  till  he  is  more  than 
twenty-two  or  maybe  more.  So  when  we  got  here  she 
was  taken  sick  one  day,  and  when  I  got  the  doctor, 
which  was  Doctor  Pingle,  she  had  a  baby  and  it  was 
you,  and  you  had  such  a  dark  little  face  that  she  did 
not  like  it,  and  she  said  she  wanted  to  go  to  Japan  and 
China,  so  we  are  going  to-morrow,  and  I  would  not 
go  till  I  had  put  the  money  in  the  bank  and  left  this 
letter,  and  I  may  come  back  ami  get  you  soon,  as  I 
love  you  so  much,  you  poor  little  innocent  baby,  and 

158 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR    YEARS 

Doctor  Pingle  is  a  good  man  and  he  loves  you  already, 
and  I  know  you  will  like  him,  and  that's  about  all  there 
is  to  it,  except  you  may  wish  to  know  about  me  more 
some  day. 

"  Your  mother  is  a  genuine  American,  but  her 
father  was  French  aristocratic  descent,  born  in  Bos- 
ton, and  was  stock  which  came  over  with  Lafayette, 
and  her  mother's  parents  were  English,  and  boasted 
of  noble  blood,  but  their  forefathers  fought  against 
the  British  forces  good  and  hard,  and  that  makes  your 
mother  pretty  good  American  too,  and  she  is  of  a 
proud  family  of  beauties  before  her.  And  my  father 
was  named  Donald  Gordon  and  he  came  to  America 
from  Scotand,  and  he  and  his  brother  were  rich  before 
they  came,  and  I  was  born  in  Virginia,  July  n,  1850, 
and  when  the  war  broke  out  my  father  took  me  to 
New  York  City  and  left  me  there  at  school,  and  he 
gave  up  his  property  in  Virginia  for  half  its  price  and 
went  to  the  war  and  fought  with  the  Union  forces 
under  General  Sturgis,  and  was  shot  in  battle  and 
died  of  his  wounds  in  January,  1864,  a  good  man 
and  true;  but  perhaps  he  married  my  mother  for 
more  money.  My  mother's  name  was  Dora  Muller 
and  her  father  was  a  German  and  a  great  musician, 
and  he  was  rich  and  independent  and  lived  alone,  and 
no  one  went  to  see  him  often,  and  he  did  not  care, 
and  that  was  all  my  father  told  me  about  him,  and 

J59 


THE    INEVITABLE 


my  mother  was  old  Muller's  daughter  and  she  was 
a  good  woman  and  nice  looking,  though  she  died  when 
I  was  ten,  so  I  only  remember  a  little  about  her.  But 
she  was  almost  as  white  as  any  one,  and  she  was 
mulatto,  but  she " 

A  cry,  as  if  from  sudden  pain,  escaped  from  Gor- 
don's lips.  He  straightened  rigidly  in  his  seat.  He 
tore  open  the  collar  of  his  dressing-gown  and  stared 
at  the  paper  wildly. 

" almost  as  white  as  any  one — mulatto !" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  thrust  the  paper  from 
him.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it,  glaringly.  He 
was  choking.  It  could  not  be  true !  The  paper  lied ! 
His  eyes  deceived  him!  It  was  not  really  there.  It 
couldn't  be  true! — it  couldn't!  He  was  Indian!  He 
was  anything  but  that!  He  had  always  been  an  In- 
dian! he  had  chosen  to  be  an  Indian!  Nobody — no- 
body had  a  right  to  make  him  anything  else!  It  was 
false !  He  spurned  it.  The  paper  lied, — oh !  it  had  to 
lie! — it  couldn't  be  true! 

He  read  it  again.  It  refused  to  change.  It  mocked 
him — swept  away  all  he  had  been  by  his  boyish  thought 
— branded  him — sentenced  him — tainted  his  blood  and 
levelled  his  pride. 

"  Negro !  negro !"  cried  something  in  his  suddenly 
humiliated  soul.  He  groaned  and  threw  his  hands 
behind  his  head  and  held  them  fiercely  over  both  his 

160 


AFTER    TWENTY-FOUR    YEARS 

ears,  then  clutched  his  face  about  his  eyes  in  a  frenzy 
of  blotting  out  their  vision. 

"  Not  that !  Not  that !"  he  cried  at  the  paper  on 
the  table,  and,  suddenly  descending  upon  it,  he  tore 
it  to  scraps  and,  casting  them  from  him  sank  down  in 
his  chair  and  hid  his  face  in  passionate  anger  and 
shame. 


ii  161 


XIV 

POSTPONING   THE  JUDGMENT 

THE  laurels  of  all  his  achievement  had  been  crushed 
to  a  shapeless,  insignificant  thing  by  the  weight 
of  his  parentage  suddenly  fallen  on  Gordon's  head. 
The  utter  abasement  he  felt  was  beyond  the  compre- 
hension of  any,  save  one  who  had  nearly  been  lynched 
for  a  negro,  who  had  suffered  scorn  and  isolation  his 
whole  boyhood  through,  and  who  had  chosen  so  pas- 
sionately to  be  the  descendant  of  a  free,  if  savage, 
Indian. 

Where  he  should  hide  his  tell-tale  face,  how  he 
could  manage  to  hold  up  his  head,  and  how  conceal 
this  shame  were  the  problems  that  stared  at  him 
blankly  from  those  scraps  of  paper  on  the  floor.  His 
gaze  wandered  listlessly  about  the  room.  There  was 
his  music-score,  here  was  a  heap  of  invitations;  the 
one  his  work,  the  other  results.  Oh,  the  bitterness, 
the  gall  and  acid  of  this  stroke  of  fate,  after  all  these 
years  of  his  pride  and  spirit! 

The  world  had  believed  him  an  Indian.  Here  he 
was,  heralded  forth  a  descendant  of  the  noble  Co- 
manches,  whose  name  he  had  chosen.  And  here  was 
the  slur  cast  as  in  all  his  life  upon  the  African,  thus 
always  flung  downward  from  man's  high  estate  for  the 

163 


POSTPONING   THE   JUDGMENT 

chains  that  had  bound  him  in  the  past.  How  far  the 
black  man  fell  Gordon  knew  too  well.  He  was  fall- 
ing still  himself.  He  had  not  yet  begun  even  to  clutch 
at  anything  to  arrest  that  plunge  in  which  he  felt  his 
pride  go  sweeping  upward  past  him,  like  a  rush  of  the 
wind.  He  had  so  abhorred  the  mere  idea  that  he  might 
have  a  drop  of  that  serf-shamed  blood  in  his  veins  that 
all  that  the  negro  might  ever  attain,  in  manhood 
and  upward  growth,  left  not  the  shadow  of  a  miti- 
gating thought  in  his  mind. 

But  nobody  need  be  told ;  this  he  suddenly  realized. 
It  made  him  start  and  grow  hot.  The  torn  and  scat- 
tered document,  that  alone  could  apprise  the  world  of 
the  truth,  lay  there  upon  the  floor,  already  half  de- 
stroyed. He  fell  upon  the  pieces  and  gathered  them 
up  in  his  hands  in  feverish  haste.  He  threw  them 
guiltily  into  the  grate  and  lighted  a  match  to  set  them 
all  ablaze. 

Then  something  in  his  nature,  yearning  towards  that 
father  he  had  never  known,  arrested  his  gesture.  He 
dropped  the  match,  and  taking  out  the  scraps  of  paper, 
one  by  one,  he  fitted  the  pieces  together,  there  on  the 
floor,  as  he  kneeled  before  the  grate.  The  last  words 
of  his  father's  message,  unfinished  before,  were  pre- 
sented to  his  gaze,  and  with  a  strange  affection  in  his 
heart  he  read  the  lines: 


163 


THE    INEVITABLE 


" mulatto,  but  she  was  educated  to  speak  in 

three  languages  and  she  was  gentle  and  good  and  was 
happy  when  she  died,  for  she  had  been  a  real  comfort 
to  my  father,  and  they  were  very  fond  of  each  other, 
as  my  father  often  told  me. 

"  So  it  is  my  fault  your  little  face  is  so  dark,  for 
your  mother  is  very  beautiful,  and  if  she  had  not  been 
petted  so  much  by  every  one  and  told  how  pretty  she 
was  she  would  never  let  you  go  nor  take  me  away 
from  my  little  innocent  son,  and,  God  bless  you !  I 
shall  always  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  hope 
I  shall  come  back  to  you  soon,  and  my  heart  is  torn 
in  two  pieces,  but  I  cannot  do  anything,  and  O  God, 
my  little  baby  boy,  I  do  hope  you  will  forgive  your 
father, 

"  GEORGE  GORDON." 


Roger  sat  there  on  the  floor  and  read  the  whole 
paper  again,  from  first  to  last.  He  could  not  destroy 
it.  All  the  pent-up  yearning  of  his  heart,  the  yearning 
that  for  years  had  made  him  a  sober,  affectionate  boy, 
reached  forth  to  this  tangible  thing  from  his  father 
and  held  it  precious.  It  was  something  paternal  at 
last, — something  to  prove  that  he  had  not  been  always 
without  that  spirit  of  hovering  love  and  anxiety  which 
none  but  an  actual  parent  is  given  to  feel. 

He  gathered  the  scraps  in  his  hand,  and  carried 
164 


POSTPONING    THE   JUDGMENT 

them  back  to  the  table.  There  he  pasted  the  pieces 
one  by  one  on  a  sheet  of  his  blank  score-paper,  patch- 
ing with  infinite  care  where  the  fragments  joined. 
Then  he  dressed  himself  and  placed  the  paper  in  his 
pocket. 

He  was  apparently  calm  at  last,  after  the  futile  out- 
burst against  this  thing.  He  could  almost  accept  the 
truth  that  so  blighted  his  heart,  but  he  could  not  lift 
off  the  weight  of  the  revelation.  The  worst  was  yet 
to  come.  He  knew  this,  but  his  mind  avoided  the 
thought.  Mentally  he  begged  for  time.  It  was  too 
much  to  ask  of  any  man  that  he  should  decide  so 
soon  between  his  love  and  his  sense  of  right. 

He  could  not  see  how  he  could  tell  Genevra  of  what 
he  had  learned.  She  had  scorned  that  imputation 
years  before,  that  negro  blood  ran  in  his  veins.  When 
she  saved  him  from  the  lynchers  that  day  she  had 
called  him  an  Indian.  How  could  he  bear  to  tell — 
the  merciless  truth ! 

On  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  live  a  lie  always. 
If  ever  he  dared  to  make  a  woman  his  wife,  the  truth 
might  take  such  a  terrible  way  of  appearing. 

But  he  could  not  decide  what  to  do — not  yet.  It 
was  still  so  soon  since  Genevra  had  cried  out  to  him 
just  as  once  she  had  done  so  long  before.  His  joy  in 
that  one  little  signal  had  been  so  brief.  He  had  a  right 
to  see  her  once — she  herself  would  expect  no  less. 

165 


THE    INEVITABLE 


He  made  these  excuses  as  one  who  has  walked  con- 
fidently in  the  sunlight  and  suddenly  feels  himself 
tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  a  stern,  forbidding  presence 
which  would  say,  "  I  arrest  you,  impostor,— come !" 
He  could  not  comprehend  at  once  that  all  he  had  been, 
all  he  had  ever  enjoyed,  had  suddenly  vanished,  to  be 
known  no  more. 

He  knew  he  was  begging  the  question.  But  a  mo- 
ment's respite  was  so  little  to  ask.  This  thing  had 
come  so  unexpectedly  upon  him!  With  the  eyes  of 
the  world  so  turned  in  his  direction,  how  could  he 
abase  himself  at  once? 

Gordon  had  no  sense  of  self-importance  to  sustain 
a  thought  that  what  he  had  managed  to  accomplish 
would  put  him  through,  regardless  of  what  he  was. 
He  had  once  known  the  degradation  of  having  been 
thought  a  negro. 


166 


XV 
ROGER'S   HOUR 


THE  world  is  filled  with  persons  absorbed  in  the 
passion  of  standing  where  the  light  from  greatness  will 
fall  upon  them  and  model  them  out  in  relief,  on  the 
vast  desolation  of  obscurity.  Indeed,  the  next  best 
thing  to  achieving  celebrity  is  to  know  a  celebrated 
individual  and  to  let  one's  neighbors  see  that  one 
knows  him.  A  large  number  of  men  and  women,  dis- 
tinguished after  this  manner,  awaited  Comanche's  ad- 
vent at  Lady  Denby's  garden. 

Her  ladyship  had  intended  something  far  more  quiet 
and  restful.  She  was  helpless,  however,  since  even 
unheard-of  acquaintances  had  suddenly  discovered 
that  they  owed  her  important  social  obligations,  neces- 
sitating attention  this  very  afternoon. 

Roger  came  among  them  soberly.  A  few  words, 
sincere  and  precious  to  his  heart,  were  all  he  had 
time  to  hear  from  his  hostess  before  the  trial  of 
the  lionizing  process  was  upon  him.  Grave  by 
nature,  rendered  graver  still  by  his  recent  discov- 
eries as  to  who  and  what  he  was,  he  presented  a 
rare  study  in  modesty  and  wistfulness,  in  all  that 
idolizing  throng. 

The  reception  amazed  him.  To  have  a  score  of 
167 


THE    INEVITABLE 


pretty  women  constantly  clustered  about  him,  hang- 
ing on  his  every  word,  begging  him  winningly,  coquet- 
tishly,  and  even  tearfully — to  accept  great  armfuls  of 
flowers,  or  to  take  to  his  heart  the  most  extravagant 
of  flatteries, — all  this  came  to  him  oddly.  He  had 
thought  the  world  would  guess  the  dread  truth  of 
his  parentage  by  the  guilt  in  his  eyes 

He  knew  not  what  to  do.  From  time  to  time  his 
half -sad  gaze  went  searching  beyond  the  bank  of  faces 
for  one  truly  comprehending  glance,  for  which  he 
felt  his  soul  was  aching.  He  saw  her  at  last, — Genevra, 
standing  apart  from  the  others,  waiting,  rewarded  to 
the  full  at  last  when  his  eyes  exchanged  their  message 
with  her  own. 

It  lasted  for  a  second  only,  this  sweet  communion. 
For  the  suddenly  famous,  fate  turns  her  kaleidoscope 
with  rapidity.  New  faces,  new  smiles,  new  bunches 
of  roses  played  across  his  confused  vision.  But  noth- 
ing could  serve  to  obliterate  that  inner  consciousness 
of  who  he  was. 

"  Herr  Comanche,  you  make  rrie  come  to  you,"  said 
the  voice  of  Lady  Denby,  who  at  length  thus  politely 
chided  the  ladies.  "  I  must  really  insist  on  your  taking 
a  cup  of  tea.  You  are  tired,  I  know." 

Embarrassed  as  he  was  for  a  lack  of  replies  to  make 
to  acquaintances  so  swiftly  and  unaccountably  ac- 
quired, Gordon  was  as  glad  to  behold  the  face  of  his 

168 


ROGER'S    HOUR 


hostess  once  again  as  a  lion  might  be  to  discover  the 
form  of  his  keeper. 

When  he  and  her  ladyship  made  their  way  out  of 
the  cluster  of  feminine  admirers,  he  saw  again  where 
Genevra  was  standing  alone,  waiting  in  patience  till 
he  should  come  to  her  side. 

"  This  is  only  a  little  of  the  penalty  you  will  find 
yourself  obliged  to  pay,"  imparted  Lady  Denby.  "  You 
do  look  exhausted,  really.  How  tremendous  it  was!" 

He  heard  as  one  who  walks  in  his  sleep.  He  could 
see  only  Genevra,  with  that  light,  so  radiantly  beautiful 
and  tender,  in  her  eyes.  He  came  towards  her  slowly, 
every  step  an  advance  to  a  happiness  ineffable.  He 
felt  he  could  hardly  endure  the  wild  and  uncontrollable 
gladness  in  his  heart. 

Genevra  put  forth  her  hand  and  he  took  it.  His 
face  was  earnest,  his  look  nearly  sad  and  yet  so  tran- 
scendentally  illumined  by  what  he  felt  in  that  second. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  murmured,  that  only  he  should 
hear. 

He  could  make  no  reply,  and  Genevra  understood. 

But  brief  as  their  second  would  have  been  at  any 
ordinary  function,  it  must  needs  be  still  further  re- 
duced. The  ladies  all  developed  a  famishing  thirst  for 
tea.  New  arrivals,  and  those  who  had  come  to  secure 
a  front  position,  thronged  about  the  tables  and  about 
Comanche  once  again,  a  pink  and  blue  and  white  bou- 

169 


THE    INEVITABLE 


quet  of  animated  loveliness  in  mull  and  silk,  exhaling 
fragrance,  lavishing  glances,  honeying  all  the  air  with 
the  accents  of  compliment. 

Roger  looked  his  bewilderment.  His  expression 
served  only  to  make  him  far  more  interesting  to  his 
self-appointed  admirers.  From  time  to  time  some 
naive  remark  brought  the  dancing  lights  once  more 
to  his  eyes;  and  then  their  succeeding  melancholy 
broke  the  hearts  of  his  sentimental  idolaters,  in  the 
semi-hysteria  of  their  emotions. 

Lady  Denby  found  all  her  tact  called  in  requisition 
when  the  time  arrived  to  permit  her  guests  to  depart. 
When  at  length  her  carriage  was  ready,  however,  her 
adroitness  was  proved.  She  gave  Herr  Comanche  in 
charge  of  Genevra,  and  sent  them  through  the  house 
together  to  meet  her  for  a  drive. 

For  one  breathless  second,  when  they  found  them- 
selves alone,  Genevra  and  Roger  looked  in  one  an- 
other's eyes. 

She  placed  her  hand  in  his  as  she  had  when  a  child, 
and  walked  thus  a  moment  at  his  side. 


170 


XVI 

GENEVRA'S   THEME 


THERE  are  days  of  such  fragrant  charm  that  it  seems 
as  if  the  heart  would  plunge  the  coldest  reason  into 
love's  own  mischief.  It  was  such  a  day  as  this  when 
Gordon  found  himself  seated  beside  Genevra  and 
facing  Lady  Denby,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away  to  the 
near-by  entrance  of  Hyde  Park.  The  breath  of  trees 
and  grass,  so  freshly  beautified  again,  the  fanning  by 
of  little  zephyrs  from  Genevra's  roses  that  filled  her 
lap,  the  perfect  luxury  and  comfort  of  the  cushions 
about  him,  all  created  a  semi-madness  in  Roger's 
being. 

He  felt  himself  guilty,  thus  to  be  taking  these  pleas- 
ures at  Genevra's  side.  He  was  living  a  lie;  he  was 
not  what  she  thought  him ;  his  smile  when  it  answered 
hers  was  false.  That  she  had  the  first  right  of  any  one 
in  the  world  to  know  what  he  was,  he  conceded ;  that 
the  courage  to  tell  her  would  come  he  could  not  be- 
lieve. 

But  the  spirit  of  temporizing  developed  into  some- 
thing of  defiance.  Having  sipped  at  this  cup  of  de- 
light, he  must  drink  this  once  till  he  had  all  that  the 
day  could  afford. 

Rotten  Row  had  never  been  more  brilliant.  A  thou- 
171 


THE    INEVITABLE 


sand  carriages,  with  their  polished  spokes  tossing  off 
a  largess  of  glinting  sunlight,  seemed  rolling  on  wheels 
of  the  sun's  own  gossamer.  In  texture  soft  as  down, 
in  greens,  whites,  pinks,  and  lavenders,  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  beautiful  women  were  driven  by,  many 
of  them  nodding  and  smiling  as  they  passed.  The 
tinkle  of  harness  and  silver  chains  seemed  the 
music  of  this,  the  parade  of  beauty,  wealth,  and 
fashion. 

"  It  far  excelled  my  greatest  hope,"  said  Lady  Denby, 
when  at  last  they  were  well  in  the  Row.  "  I  feel  as 
proud  to-day  as  if  I  had  done  it  all  myself." 

"  Done  what  ?"  said  Roger,  whose  thoughts  were 
all  confusion. 

"Why,  your  great  recital,  innocent.  There  is  no 
other  topic." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,"  Roger  replied.  The 
flush  that  rose  to  his  face,  visible  under  the  clear 
bronze  of  his  dark  complexion,  attested  his  genuine 
lack  of  guile. 

"  No ;  you  must  let  me  say  it,  Herr  Comanche," 
her  ladyship  insisted.  "  It  was  really  tremendous.  I 
said  that  before.  That's  the  word  that  expresses  what 
I  mean.  The  critics  uphold  me.  Surely  you  must 
have  seen  the  papers." 

"  I  saw  them,  yes,"  he  confessed.  But  his  mind 
was  filled  with  what  he  had  learned  from  that  other 

172 


GENEVRA'S    THEME 


paper  now  resting  in  his  pocket.  "  They  were  cer- 
tainly considerate." 

"  Not  all,"  said  Genevra,  impulsively.  "  One  had 
its  fling  first  before  it  could  make  itself  ready  to  tell 
the  truth." 

"  Which  one  was  that  ?"  said  Lady  Denby.  "  I  don't 
believe  I  saw  anything  of  that  sort,  Genevra." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,"  said  the  girl,  slightly  flushing. 
"  Something  about  Herr  Comanche's  name  being  Red- 
Indian.  The  criticism  really  gave  him  credit  after- 
wards." 

"  Then  Comanche  is  really  the  name  of  a  North 
American  Indian?  How  interesting!"  said  her  lady- 
ship, childishly  pleased  with  this  intelligence.  "  And 
who  was  the  original  Comanche?  A  chief,  I  suppose, 
or  a  mighty  warrior  of  the  prairies." 

Both  she  and  Genevra  expected  Roger  to  confess 
that  his  name  was  derived  from  some  noble  red  an- 
cestor, perhaps  even  famous  in  the  Cooper  of  which 
all  England  is  so  inordinately  fond. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  The  name  is  applied 
to  a  great  family,  or  tribe,  of  the  Indians,"  he  said. 
"  Apaches,  Comanches,  Iroquois,  Sioux,  and  many 
other  nations  make  up  the  Indian  population  of  the 
States.  Comanche  is  merely  a  tribal  name.  My  name, 
Lady  Denby,  is  Gordon." 

"  But  you  are  really  partially  Red-Indian,"  Genevra 
i73 


THE    INEVITABLE 


said,  eagerly.  "  The  paper  said  something  about  your 
confession  that  you  are." 

Lady  Denby  looked  at  her,  somewhat  amazed.  They 
had  already  overstepped  the  bounds  of  etiquette  in 
making  these  personal  observations.  This  was  really 
shocking,  even  for  the  always  impulsive  Genevra. 

"  The  papers — probably  got  hold  of — what  they 
said — from  some  of  my  fellow-students — my  friends," 
said  Roger.  He  knew  this  was  simply  evasion;  he 
knew  it  added  to  the  lie  which,  however  unwittingly, 
he  had  lived  so  long.  Genevra's  eagerness  to  have 
him  an  Indian  now  seemed  but  the  mature  outcome 
of  her  hot  little  statement  of  years  before  concerning 
what  he  was. 

His  agony  at  this  moment  was  supreme.  He  knew 
he  would  never  dare,  after  this,  to  tell  her  the  truth. 
Yet  neither  could  he  go  on  and  permit  her  to  place 
her  hand  in  his  again — permit  what  his  heart  so 
yearned  for,  to  happen — while  she  believed  that  the 
terrible  truth  could  not  be  true. 

He  had  dared  to  look  at  her,  sitting  there  beside 
him.  Her  eyes  had  returned  his  gaze,  honestly,  frankly, 
Her  beauty  had  enthralled  him.  Now  that  heaven's 
own  joy  shone  in  her  face,  what  a  sweet  caress  it  was 
that  her  warm  gray  eyes,  so  long-lashed  and  slumbrous, 
gave  him  from  their  depths.  How  living  was  the  vir- 
ginal fire  that  flamed  in  her  cheeks!  How  ripely  red 

J74 


GENEVRA'S    THEME 


and  full  was  her  perfect  mouth!    He  had  never  seen 
her  so  irresistibly  winning. 

"  I  have  read  that  the  Indian  tribes  of  the  States 
have  endured  many  terrible  wrongs,"  Genevra  added, 
in  a  spirit  of  womanly  sympathy.  "  You  couldn't  help 
writing  music  like  that." 

"  Oh,  Herr  Comanche,"  said  Lady  Denby,  glad 
to  get  back  to  the  subject  of  the  music,  "  I  was  so 
glad  you  put  in  that  little  touch  of  hope  at  the 
end.  That  was  hope,  wasn't  it,  really, — that  bit  at 
the  end?  It  must  have  been  hope.  I  don't  know 
much  about  music,  but  I  want  that  to  be  hope — I  do 
really." 

Gordon  looked  at  her  strangely,  almost  wildly. 
"  How  could  we  live  without  it  ?"  he  said. 

Genevra  comprehended  at  least  a  part  of  what  his 
answer  conveyed.  She  looked  in  his  eyes  fondly,  while 
her  ladyship's  head  was  momentarily  turned.  She 
meant  to  convey  to  Roger  a  sweet  assurance  that 
never  more  need  hopelessness  bring  him  its  anguish, 
for  he  had  told  her  that  evening  when  first  they  met 
again,  that  out  of  his  dream  of  that  boyhood  meeting 
he  had  written  his  "  Paradise  Lost."  He  saw  her  look ; 
his  own  eyes  met  it  and  caught  it,  till  his  heart  was 
leaping  in  his  breast. 

"  Oh !  Herr  Comanche,"  said  Lady  Denby,  half  ex- 
citedly, "  the  Duchess  of  Arran !" 

175 


THE   INEVITABLE 


Roger  turned  in  time  to  raise  his  hat  to  the  lady 
graciously  bowing  to  them  all  as  she  passed. 

"  You  shall  meet  her  soon,"  Lady  Denby  added  in 
a  moment.  "  She  was  there  last  night,  and  came  up 
to  see  me  when  it  was  over.  She  studied  music, 
and  even  composition,  for  years.  Really,  last  night 
was  a  triumph.  Your  fortune  is  made,  Herr  Co- 
manche." 

"  And  you  won't  be  spoiled  ?"  asked  Genevra. 

"  I — don't  know,"  said  Roger,  and  the  ladies  laughed 
at  his  gravity. 

There  were  no  more  returns  to  personal  subjects. 
The  flitting  by  of  scores  of  titled  and  other  important 
persons  whom  Lady  Denby  and  Genevra  knew,  made 
anything  but  bowing  and  chating  on  the  idlest  of  topics 
all  but  impossible. 

The  afternoon  slipped  away,  with  its  wonderful 
sense  of  fragrance,  its  bewildering  pageant  of  beauty 
and  riches,  its  intoxicating  charm.  Gordon  still  post- 
poned sentence  on  himself,  and  drank  madly  at  the 
joy  which  he  felt  would  slip  so  soon  from  his  grasp. 

It  came  to  an  end  while  the  day  was  still  a  thing 
of  surpassing  loveliness.  He  made  all  manner  of 
promises  and  social  engagements,  as  one  might 
answer  in  a  dream. 

When  they  stopped  at  last  at  Lady  Denby's  house, 
Genevra  gave  him  both  her  hands,  to  assist  her  out  of 

176 


GENEVRA'S    THEME 


the  carriage.  Her  ladyship  was  engaged  for  a  moment 
giving  her  orders  to  the  coachman. 

"  Good-by,  till  we  meet  again — soon,"  said  Genevra. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  she  asked,  "  Will 
you  write  something,  some  day,  for — something  that 
I  would  like?" 

"  Yes — I  hope  so,"  he  answered.  "  And  what  shall 
it  be?" 

"  I'd  like  it  so  much  if  you  felt  that  you  wanted — 
if  you'd  write  a  '  Paradise  Regained/ "  She  was 
blushing,  but  she  looked  at  him  bravely.  "  Do  you — 
think  you  can?" 

He  looked  at  her  yearningly.  "  O  God !"  he  groaned 
in  his  heart.  To  Genevra  he  only  said,  "  I  wish  I 
could." 


12  177 


XVII 

THE   CHEER   OF   FELLOWSHIP 


A  MAN  may  endure  a  mountain  of  criticism  who 
cannot  endure  a  mole-hill  of  humiliation.  Gordon  was 
sickened  at  the  thought  of  undergoing  the  consequences 
of  having  it  known  that  his  dark-bronze  face  was  the 
advertisement  of  African  blood.  His  soul  revolted  as 
he  dwelt  upon  the  subject.  He  had  suffered  so  in- 
tensely, in  his  sensitive  nature  as  a  boy,  for  this  same 
dark  skin,  that  he  could  bear  no  more. 

He  could  contemplate  the  anguish  of  saying  farewell 
to  Genevra  forever  with  courage ;  he  recoiled  from  the 
merest  hint  of  telling  her  what  he  had  learned.  He 
knew  that  to  see  her  again,  and  yet  again,  as  he  had 
to-day  would  be  dastardly.  But  unless  he  told  her 
and  let  her  shrink  from  him,  suddenly  disillusionized, 
what  course  could  he  possibly  adopt  to  prevent  this 
present  drifting,  towards  which  his  whole  nature  urged 
him  so  madly? 

When  he  came  to  his  room  he  found  a  score  more 
of  letters,  brought  by  the  post  since  his  leaving  early 
in  the  afternoon.  They  were  invitations,  tickets  to 
various  functions,  and  perfumed  congratulations. 
Among  the  first  that  he  opened  was  one  from  Lady 
Fitzhenry.  She  called  him  naughty,  in  having  failed 

178 


THE   CHEER    OF   FELLOWSHIP 

to  come  to  see  her  for  several  days,  and  more  espe- 
cially that  day,  after  the  homage  she  had  paid  him  at 
his  great  recital.  But  he  would  come  to  luncheon  the 
following  day,  and  perhaps  she  should  see  him  even 
sooner. 

The  man  sat  down  with  this  note  in  his  hand.  He 
read  it  again,  his  thoughts  beginning  to  focus  on  a 
possibility:  He  had  only  to  permit  himself  to  fall  a 
little  into  the  humor  in  which  Lady  Fitzhenry  so  in- 
sistently professed  herself  to  be,  to  make  Genevra 
believe  him  a  worthless  trifler. 

Lady  Fitzhenry,  he  was  well  aware,  was  amply  able 
to  take  care  of  her  heart.  That  she  was  merely 
amusing  herself  with  a  momentary  flirtation  he  could 
have  no  doubt.  She  had  begun  somewhat  boldly  to 
take  him  into  this  species  of  favor  at  the  earliest  possi- 
ble moment.  So  far  as  she  knew,  or  apparently 
cared,  he  might  be  African,  Hindoo,  or  Esquimau. 
He  owed  her  nothing  in  the  manner  of  a  warning, 
no  explanation  as  to  who  and  what  he  was.  A  mild 
flirtation,  or  one  that  was  not  distinctly  mild,  would 
mean  as  little  to  her  at  the  end  as  it  would  to  him. 
But  to  Genevra  it  would  mean  all  that  his  greatest 
enemy  could  possibly  desire. 

He  loathed  himself  that  the  thought  of  a  method 
so  utterly  unmanly  should  receive  even  a  moment's 
serious  consideration,  but  the  shame  of  this  was  a 

179 


THE    INEVITABLE 


thing  he  could  bear.  He  could  advertise  himself  un- 
worthy in  any  particular  in  which  men  so  frequently 
fail  to  preserve  the  manhood  with  which  they  find 
themselves  endowed,  but  he  could  not  think  of  inviting 
back  the  mortifications  he  had  formerly  known. 

There  was  no  escape  for  him.  It  was  merely  a 
matter  of  choosing  the  manner  of  his  agonies  and 
shames.  Through  it  all  he  was  never  tempted  to  de- 
ceive Genevra.  Were  her  love  a  thousand  times  his 
for  the  asking,  it  could  not  bribe  him  to  take  her,  under 
a  pretence  that  one  of  his  ancestors  had  been  an  Ameri- 
can Indian.  If  the  man's  mind  was  morbid  on  the 
subject  of  what  he  had  found  himself  to  be,  it  had 
always  been  awed  too  greatly  by  his  own  sufferings 
to  permit  him  to  contribute  to  the  same  sort  of  punish- 
ment for  another. 

He  could  think  of  nothing  so  likely  to  work  its  bitter 
consequence  as  this  possibility  offered  by  the  advances 
of  Lady  Fitzhenry.  In  his  soul  he  cried  out  in  despair 
at  such  a  mockery  of  fate.  But  fate  is  as  blind  as 
justice  and  as  deaf  as  death.  He  was  banished  from 
his  Paradise;  he  must  close  its  gates  himself. 

Having  all  but  forgotten  his  weird  protege  in  the 
stress  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  he  chided  himself 
somewhat  at  last,  and  went  to  the  room  that  was 
occupied  by  Fritz,  where  he  found  that  faithful  indi- 
vidual lying  in  bed. 

180 


THE    CHEER    OF   FELLOWSHIP 

Fritz  was  ill.  He  refused  to  confess  to  such  a  sur- 
render as  illness  would  argue,  but  Gordon  could  see 
through  the  little  fellow's  smile,  as  if  maternally. 

"Hullo,  Colossus,"  he  said,  "what's  up?  You 
haven't  been  bawling  yourself  towards  your  grave 
again,  you  humbug?" 

"  I  am  all  right.  I  am  only  tired,"  Fritz  hastened 
to  assure  him.  "  I  have  been  asleep,  dreaming  about 
the  great  work.  I  knew  you  would  come.  I  mean, 
I  was  going  to  get  up  before  you  came." 

Roger  sat  down  on  the  bed  and,  pretending  to  push 
the  pillow  into  a  rounder  wad  of  comfort,  touched  its 
surface.  It  was  damp.  He  knew  that  Fritz  had  made 
himself  ill  by  living  the  fathomless  despair  he  had 
helped  to  express  in  "  Paradise  Lost."  The  things 
he  had  never  attained  himself  in  music,  the  limitations 
of  his  brain,  which  the  comical  little  chap  could  never 
comprehend,  and  the  strangely  sensitive  temperament 
that  lurked  in  his  misshapen  body,  all  had  plunged 
Colossus  into  similar  outbursts  of  grief  before,  as 
Gordon  was  well  aware.  Sad  music  had  the  power 
to  reduce  his  spirits  to  a  fatal  ebb.  That  the  partici- 
pation in  the  recital  might  produce  this  effect  Roger 
had  felt;  but  he  had  also  known  that  to  deny  Fritz 
such  a  boon  as  that  same  participation  would  afford 
would  have  been  to  break  the  heart  of  this  lonesome 
little  being. 

181 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  I'd  spank  you  for  a  pfennig,"  said  Roger.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  lying  here  and  never 
eating  your  meals." 

"  I  forgot.  I  mean,  I  wasn't  hungry — and  I  slept 
so  long — and  I  dreamed  so  many  nice  things  about 
you  that  I  wouldn't  wake  up  if  I  could.  So  I  haven't 
been  hungry.  But  I'll  eat  a  hippopotamus  if  you  want 
me  to  ...  I  knew  you'd  come." 

Gordon  rang  the  bell,  parted  the  curtains  till  the 
glory  of  the  waning  day  illuminated  the  room,  and 
began  to  sing  a  little  German  song  which  had  cheered 
Colossus  heretofore  on  similar  occasions.  To  make 
him  smile,  forget,  and  hope  was  the  only  way  to  keep 
the  rogue  from  pernicious  illness.  When  the  land- 
lady appeared  Roger  ordered  eggs,  coffee,  cold  meat, 
bread,  marmalade,  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  some  apple- 
tart. 

"  I  shall  get  up  and  prowl,  if  you  wish  it,"  said 
Fritz. 

Roger  knew  Colossus  was  as  weak  as  wet  paper  in 
this  illness,  come  again  upon  him  in  a  foreign  land, 
and  that  he  was  quite  unfitted  to  stand  on  his  long 
slender  legs. 

"  N-o,"  he  said,  as  if  after  careful  reflection,  "  stay 
where  you  are.  It  will  keep  you  out  of  mischief.  You 
might  break  the  furniture,  if  I  let  you  get  up,  after 
all  you  shall  eat." 

182 


THE    CHEER    OF    FELLOWSHIP 

"  Yes,  I  might  break  the  house  off,"  agreed  Fritz, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  have  got  so  rested  I  am  too  hearty." 

Roger  went  on  with  the  singing,  as  he  moved  about 
the  room,  in  his  own  peculiar  "  gayety"  of  spirits.  He 
smoothed  the  wrinkles  from  Fritz's  bed  and  then 
brought  the  basin  of  water,  the  soap,  and  a  towel. 

"  Here,  give  me  those  hands,  Colossus,"  he  said. 
"  With  your  bluster  and  brawn  you'd  shatter  the  dish." 

He  washed  the  two  limp  hands,  so  homely  and 
freckled,  dried  them,  and  tucked  them  under  the 
blankets.  Then  he  bathed  Fritz's  face,  all  the  while 
keeping  up  his  raillery  of  scolding  and  joking. 

When  the  dinner  arrived  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  a 
table,  and,  propping  Colossus  upright  in  the  bed,  pro- 
ceeded gently  to  make  him  eat  till  the  patient  sank  lan- 
guidly back  on  his  pillows. 

"  Do  I  have  to  eat  any  more  ?"  asked  Fritz,  at  length. 

"  More,  Colossus  ?"  said  Gordon,  in  amazement. 
"Do  you  think  yourself  the  Prussian  army?  And 
what  have  you  left  for  me,  as  it  is?" 

Colossus  smiled,  as  Roger  let  him  lie  again  on  his 
back.  He  had  eaten  as  much  as  might  have  satisfied 
the  mightiest  kitten  withal. 

Putting  aside  the  table,  with  its  half-consumed  din- 
ner upon  it,  Gordon  sang  at  his  cheerful  bit  of  a  lay 
as  he  made  the  apartment  tidy  and  opened  the  windows 
for  the  air  to  enter  more  freely. 

183 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  I've  got  some  news  as  rich  as  plum-pudding,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  don't  know,  Fritz,  whether  you  like  to 
hear  good  news  or  not." 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Fritz.  "  I  could  stand  on 
my  head  all  the  time  you  were  telling  me  good 
news." 

"You  stand  on  your  back,  flat,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
I  had  a  letter  from  home  this  morning  that  tells  me 
I've  got  a  small  fortune, — more  money  than  I  shall 
know  what  to  do  with.  So  you  and  I  are  going  to 
have  a  fine  time,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  get  a 
wife,  and  marry  her  straight  away  off  and  settle  down 
to  a  life  of  usefulness  and  joy.  Now  that  you  can 
afford  it,  you  must  wed  forthwith,  and  break  no  more 
of  the  ladies'  hearts,  you  villanous  Don  Juan.  And 
that's  my  news." 

"Haw,"  said  Fritz,  grinning,  somewhat  wanly. 
"Me!  Married!" 

"  Yes,  married,  you  rogue, — married  and  presently 
surrounded  by  a  lot  of  little  Colossi.  You've  wasted 
enough  of  your  life  in  riotous  living.  And  now  that 
we've  got  more  gold  that  we  can  spend  if  we  try,  you 
shall  live  as  befits  your  station.  You  shall  have  that 
same  little  villa  you  chose  as  a  boy,  and  Gretel  shall 
have  you  and  her  father  both,  and  no  pinching  the 
breakfast  to  make  it  answer  for  luncheon  as  well.  To- 
morrow, or  next  day,  you  spend  your  time  in  the  park. 

184 


THE    CHEER    OF    FELLOWSHIP 

You  will  thereby  get  accustomed  to  living  the  out-of- 
door  life  you'll  adopt  at  the  Villa  die  Rosen,  and  one 
day  next  week  we  shall  go  there  and  buy  the  place 
together." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  got  that  money,"  said  Colossus. 
"  You  will  be  happy  yourself.  And  you  will  get  mar- 
ried, yes.  When  I  get  up  to-morrow  I  shall  dance, 
to  show  you  how  I  am  glad." 

Roger  was  trying  with  his  news  to  brighten  Fritz's 
spirit.  He  knew  from  previous  experience  how  insidi- 
ous and  how  enduring  were  these  spells  of  melancholy 
which  so  swiftly  reduced  his  companion's  vitality  and 
love  of  life.  But  instead  of  brightening,  as  he  had 
thought  he  would  at  the  promise  of  that  certain  little 
villa,  with  Gretel  at  last  to  make  it  glad,  Fritz  was 
dreaming  sadly  of  his  hollow  life,  when  the  might- 
have-beens  were  thus  presented  to  his  mind. 

"  You  are  a  very  devil  for  making  me  feel  like  a 
boy,"  said  Roger.  "  I  shall  have  to  get  my  violin." 

He  hastened  away  to  his  rooms,  and,  fetching  the 
instrument,  lost  no  time  in  striking  up  a  mad  bizarre, 
in  which  it  seemed  as  if  the  violin  tossed  off  a  spark- 
ling champagne  of  song  till  the  melody  laughed  at  its 
own  rollicking  spree.  As  smiling  as  Gordon  appeared 
to  be,  he  was  watching  Colossus  narrowly,  anxiously. 
His  playing  became  such  a  patter  of  fun  that  Fritz 
was  presently  won  wholly  away  from  himself  and  his 

185 


THE    INEVITABLE 


mood.  His  eyes  became  brighter,  his  feet  were  lightly 
kicking  to  the  time,  beneath  the  blankets  of  the  bed. 

It  was  almost  an  instinct  that  Gordon  had  for 
moods,  that  told  him  at  last  when  Colossus  was  warmed 
and  comforted  sufficiently  to  be  sent  to  sleep.  His  art 
was  at  its  highest  then,  as  he  blended  a  rune  of  peace 
with  his  whimsical  violin  laughter,  and  gradually 
dropped  out  the  fun  till  the  muses  sang  a  lullaby  as 
soothing  as  the  wind. 

"  Poor  old  Colossus.  Good-night,  and  God  bless 
you,"  he  whispered  at  last  to  the  sleeping  Fritz;  and 
stealing  away  to  his  own  apartments,  he  dressed  to 
return  to  Lady  Denby's. 

He  had  meditated  telegraphing,  to  say  that  illness 
detained  him.  Then  he  thought  it  highly  probable 
that  Lady  Fitzhenry  would  be  among  the  guests  that 
evening  in  attendance  at  her  ladyship's  musical  party. 
Should  he  find  her  there,  his  "  farce"  could  commence 
without  further  delay.  He  knew  that  his  holiday  was 
ended. 


1 86 


XVIII 

THE    FARCE    COMMENCES 


NEVER  had  singers,  pianists,  and  the  general  herd 
of  musical  okapis  so  responded  to  an  invitation  as 
they  did  to  Lady  Denby's.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
London  jungle  had  delivered  up  everything  it  con- 
tained to  do  homage  to  the  lion  of  the  moment. 

Confused  by  the  introductions,  the  glitter,  the  clack- 
ing voices,  that  taught  him  soon  how  weary  he  was, 
after  all  his  work  and  the  big  recital,  Roger  was  never- 
theless aware  of  two  important  factors  of  the  gather- 
ing. Lady  Fitzhenry  was  there,  and  so  was  Genevra. 

Lennox  and  Lady  Fitzhenry  came  up  nearly  to- 
gether to  greet  him.  He  was  glad  to  see  his  first 
violin,  whose  hand  he  shook  heartily.  Poor  Lennox 
had  almost  feared  to  face  the  "black  lion"  he  had 
done  so  much  to  create.  Yet  his  treachery  had  never 
been  committed,  and  the  man  was  glad — immeasurably 
glad.  Come  what  might,  he  had  not  been  a  Brutus 
to  his  friend. 

"  I  knew  you  could  do  it,  old  chap,"  said  Lennox. 
"  I  jolly  well  knew  you  only  wanted  the  opportunity." 

Roger  had  only  time  to  thank  him  when  Lady  Fitz- 
henry addressed  him. 

"  Big  man,"  she  said,  smiling  bewitchingly,  "  may 
187 


THE    INEVITABLE 


I  approach  and  hover  where  your  exalted  shadow  falls  ? 
May  I  sit  at  your  feet,  in  humble  admiration?" 

"  So  many  people  have  stepped  on  them,  without 
asking  permission,  that  I  am  almost  flattered,  Lady 
Fitzhenry,"  he  said,  laughing  as  best  he  could.  "  But 
it  is  the  privilege  of  him  that  worketh  to  make  him- 
self one  of  many  at  the  feet  of  beauty." 

"  Ah,  sir,  success  has  made  you  daring  at  last ! 
Think  how  I  so  recently  wrought  with  you,  vainly,  to 
get  one  wee  compliment.  Perhaps  you  can  afford  one 
now,  out  of  your  many  that  overwhelm  you."  She 
was  archness  itself,  as  she  looked  upon  him  with  can- 
did admiration.  Moreover,  she  understood  the  art  of 
manoeuvring  so  that  she  held  him  all  to  herself  against 
the  eager  throng.  "  But,  seriously,  Herr  Comanche, 
you  have  chained  us  all  with  your  music.  You  may 
drag  us,  willing  slaves,  where  you  will." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  must  be  alert  to  avoid  being 
myself  dragged  in  twenty  directions  all  at  once,"  he 
told  her. 

"  But  you  will  come  to  me  for  luncheon  to-mor- 
row ?"  she  hastened  to  say.  "  You  have  not  accepted 
for  luncheon  in  nineteen  other  directions?" 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  are  nearly  as  persuasive 
as  a  score  yourself.  Indeed,  you  must  be  all  of 
twenty,"  he  answered,  still  as  if  insisting  in  a  joke. 
He  was,  however,  fencing  for  time.  He  knew  that  to 

188 


THE    FARCE    COMMENCES 

carry  out  his  farce  he  would  do  well  to  attend  her 
luncheon,  but  he  clung  despairingly,  for  a  moment 
more,  to  a  hope  that  this  concession  to  fate  need  not  be 
made. 

"  Yes,  prince  of  equivocators,  I  am  twenty-two," 
she  replied,  fixing  his  gaze  with  her  ardent  eyes. 
"  Now,  will  you  answer  me, — are  you  coming?" 

"  When  I  am  dragged  by  twenty-two,  I  am  power- 
less to  refuse." 

"  Then  I  shall  never  be  less  again.  Could  a  woman 
say  more  than  that,  Herr  Comanche?" 

"  So  much  might  depend  on  how  much  she  was 
tempted,"  he  answered. 

"  That  is  equivalent  to  charging  that  we  would  say 
almost  anything  to  gain  a  point.  You  wouldn't  charge 
us  with  that?" 

"  I  would  confess,  under  pressure,  that  women  are 
born  with  facilities  for  speech." 

"  Yes ;   but  this  is  a  matter  of  conscience." 

"  Make  sure  that  man  would  never  have  adopted  a 
conscience  had  it  not  been  convenient  and  readily  kept 
in  subjection,"  said  Roger.  "  And  woman  gets  what 
she  has  from  man." 

"  Dear  me !"  said  the  lady,  much  amused.  "  Then 
perhaps  I  should  renew  my  supply,  you  think?  Could 
you  spare  me  some  of  yours?" 

"  What  you  have  at  present  is  very  becoming,"  he 
189 


THE    INEVITABLE 


assured  her.  "  Conscience  should  never  out-lustre  a 
lady's — well — say  her  sense  of  humor." 

"  Nor  a  man's  sense  of  flattery  ?  Incorrigible  de- 
mon," she  said,  tapping  him  lightly  with  her  fan,  "  I 
shall  leave  you  to  the  mercy  of  these  less  discrimi- 
nating worshippers.  Come  back  to  me  when  you 
need  to  hear  something  conscientiously  spoken." 

She  left  him  majestically.  He  could  not  but  note, 
as  she  walked  away,  how  superbly  beautiful  she  was. 
Coiffure,  face,  shoulders,  figure,  and  gown,  she  was 
splendidly  handsome  and  richly  endowed  with  life  that 
bounded  in  her  veins. 

When  some  of  the  various  performers  and  singers 
began  to  entertain  the  company,  Gordon  had  more  of 
an  opportunity  to  move  about.  Yet  one  of  the  traits 
by  which  genuinely  high  society  may  be  known  is  its 
habit  of  talking  with  renewed  energy  the  moment  that 
music  of  any  character  commences.  Therefore  Co- 
manche  presently  found  himself  the  victim  of  a  group 
of  antediluvians,  who  would  have  furnished  Darwin 
with  interesting  material  for  study  on  the  descent  of 
man.  Despite  himself,  as  he  answered  these  estimable 
ladies  and  smiled  when  they  laughed, — a  safe  and 
amiable  proceeding  always, — he  was  looking  about 
the  crowded  rooms  for  Genevra.  The  touch  of  her 
hand,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  sweet  warm  light 
in  her  eyes,  all  remained  with  him,  stirring  his  nature, 

190 


THE    FARCE    COMMENCES 

quickening  the  leap  of  his  heart,  and  making  of 
every  moment  that  came  an  eternity  of  despond- 
ency. 

She  was  not  apparently  to  be  seen  in  all  that  crush 
of  people.  He  neglected  to  look  towards  the  piano. 
When  at  length  he  heard  a  voice  that  sang  out  freshly 
above  the  Babel,  with  a  sweetness,  earnestness,  and 
feeling  that  compelled  his  attention,  he  saw  to  his  utter 
amazement,  that  Lady  Denby  had  induced  Genevra 
thus  to  entertain  her  guests. 

For  a  second  she  glanced  to  where  he  was.  The 
greeting  of  companionship  flashed  from  her  lustrous 
eyes  across  the  distance  between  them.  A  flush  that 
arose  to  mantle  her  cheek  was  a  thing  he  felt  more 
than  saw.  His  love,  suddenly  insubordinate,  flamed  in 
his  breast. 

She  was  singing  Lola's  song  from  Cavalleria  Rusti- 
cana — singing  it  passionately,  as  if  the  impulse  of  her 
nature  demanded  all  that  expression  could  give  it. 
She  was  oblivious  to  everything  in  the  rooms  save 
the  presence  of  Roger.  She  sang  to  him.  He  could 
not  but  know  it,  feel  it.  He  had  never  known  she 
could  sing  like  this,  with  such  a  force,  such  ease, 
such  temperament  and  culture. 

The  words  were  in  English.  She  preferred  them 
so.  But  instead  of  singing,  "  My  king  of  lilies,"  to 
the  metre,  she  sang,  "  My  king  of  roses."  She  dared 


THE    INEVITABLE 


to  do  it  because  no  one  could  know — no  one  but  her- 
self and  Roger,  and  even  Roger  would  not  perhaps 
realize  what  sweet  abandon  to  and  confession  of  her 
love  it  was.  Yet  the  color  that  burned  upward  in  her 
face,  the  first  time  the  oft-repeated  sentence  came,  re- 
mained on  her  cheek  till  the  end.  Moreover,  it  seemed 
to  lend  its  virginal  red  as  a  color  to  her  tones.  They 
were  rich,  impassioned,  and  thrilling.  The  impulse 
of  the  moment  had  carried  her  quite  away.  But  she 
was  right :  nobody  knew  save  Roger  and  one  other, — 
Lennox. 

Comanche's  first  violin  leaned  against  the  wall 
dumbly,  no  longer  capable  of  meditating  a  lover's  re- 
venge, no  longer  even  jealous.  The  thing  weighed 
upon  him  with  a  sense  of  inevitableness  that  crushed 
both  spirit  and  hope  at  once. 

But  Gordon  was  the  man  who  suffered.  Genevra 
came  and  found  him  when  her  song  was  finished  and 
some  one  was  playing  a  tarantella  on  a  violin.  She 
was  not  so  clever  as  Lady  Fitzhenry,  yet  she  managed 
to  isolate  him  from  the  others  for  a  moment. 

"  Miss  Melgand  has  asked  me  to  luncheon  to- 
morrow," she  said,  "  and  I'm  going  to  walk  across  the 
park." 

"  It  is  almost  as  good  as  the  forest,"  he  murmured, 
at  loss  for  a  better  reply. 

"  Not  like  some  forests, — full  of  music,"  she  said, 
192 


THE    FARCE    COMMENCES 

slightly  flushing.     "  But  it  is  beautiful.     I  shall  have 
a  few  moments  there — all  to  myself." 

His  heart  struck  with  heavy  blows.  The  fire  was 
dancing  in  his  blood,  in  his  brain. 

"  I — envy  you  that  walk,"  he  said. 

She  had  planned  for  this  moment ;  she  had  planned 
that  walk — for  their  two  selves.  She  could  barely 
speak  for  the  tumult  of  feelings  that  possessed  her. 
She  could  not  look  up  as  she  added,  half  in  a  whis- 
per,— 

"  I  know — Miss  Melgand — wants  to  invite  you — as 
well — to  come." 

He  understood.  He  had  guessed  at  the  first  men- 
tion of  the  park  and  the  walk  that  her  sweet  sense  of 
womanly  provision  had  schemed  for  this  moment,  to 
which  they  should  by  every  right  feel  entitled.  His 
brain  was  reeling.  He  caught  at  himself  in  despera- 
tion, to  prevent  the  outbreak  of  every  natural  impulse 
that  strove  for  expression  in  his  nature.  If  only  he 
dared  to  tell  her  all, — but  he  knew  he  had  not  the 
courage. 

"  I  am — very  unfortunate, — I  mean,  I  am  too  fortu- 
nate, I  fear,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  that  he  forced. 
"  I  have  already — accepted  an  invitation  to  lunch — 
with  Lady  Fitzhenry." 

"  Lady  Fitzhenry* — to-morrow  ?"    she  said. 

"  To-morrow,  yes." 
13  i93 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh !  You  are, — indeed,  very  fortunate,"  she  said, 
faintly.  "  Lady  Denby — must  be  looking  for  me.  I 
must  go — for  a  moment.  Good-by." 

He  saw  that  her  cheeks  had  suddenly  paled  a  trifle. 
She  turned  away  smiling,  but  without  spirit  or  mirth, 
and  went  to  her  hostess  through  the  throng.  He  knew 
the  first  of  his  poisoned  darts  had  found  its  mark. 


194 


XIX 

A   PARTIAL   INTOXICATION 


THRICE  ill  at  his  heart,  Gordon  drove  to  Lady  Fitz- 
henry's  the  following  day.  He  was  ill  to  think  of 
Genevra  and  what  she  would  naturally  conclude  from 
his  conduct;  he  was  ill  for  himself  and  his  life,  for 
which  he  could  no  longer  care ;  he  was  ill  over  Fritz, 
whose  malady  had  not  diminished,  but  had  rather  in- 
creased, if  weakness  can  be  said  so  to  progress.  He 
had  called  in  a  doctor  for  the  uncomplaining  Colossus, 
but  there  was  none  he  could  call  for  himself, — for  his 
heartache  and  anguish. 

In  the  absence  of  any  sign  of  visitors  other  than 
himself  in  front  of  Lady  Fitzhenry's  stately  house, 
Roger  thought  he  must  have  arrived  far  too  early.  By 
his  watch,  however,  it  was  two,  the  hour  her  ladyship 
had  appointed.  He  therefore  rang  and  entered,  to  find 
that  the  reception-room  contained  no  guests,  as  it  had 
on  the  last  occasion  when  he  called.  Before  he  had 
time  to  speculate  on  the  subject,  Lady  Fitzhenry  her- 
self appeared  and  came  towards  him  with  her  hand 
extended. 

"  My  dear  Herr  Comanche,  I  am  so  delighted  that 
you  really  did  not  forget,"  she  said.  "  I  trust  you  are 
quite  as  well  as  you  look.  It  is  such  a  grand  day  that 


THE    INEVITABLE 


I  have  ordered  the  carriage.  So  let  us  go  to  luncheon 
at  once.  It  will  give  us  so  much  more  time  in  the 
park." 

"  But,  Lady  Fitzhenry "  he  started  to  say. 

"  Now,  please,  no  protests,  or  anything  of  the  sort," 
she  interrupted.  "  Luncheon  with  me  nearly  always 
means  a  drive  afterwards,  and  you  know  you  accepted 
without  conditions." 

After  all,  why  not? — as  much  driving  as  she  pleased. 
The  more  he  was  seen  in  her  company,  the  shorter 
would  be  the  need  of  protracting  his  farce. 

"  I  confess  to  a  weakness  for  the  park,"  he  said, 
somewhat  lamely.  He  followed  where  she  led  the  way 
to  a  smaller  dining-room  than  the  one  in  which  she 
had  entertained  before.  Thus  he  found  himself  in  a 
cosey  little  place  into  which  the  sun  shone  through 
interstices  between  the  leaves  of  plants,  trained  to 
grow  high  on  a  swinging  shelf,  which  was  now  across 
the  window  with  its  burden  of  greenery.  The  leaves 
made  an  unconventional  design  against  the  light.  A 
sleek  cat,  curled  like  a  muff,  was  asleep  on  one  of 
the  many  cushions  with  which  the  window-seat 
was  provided.  The  apartment  was  one  in  which 
luxury  and  beauty  of  adornment  and  furnishing  had 
been  lavished  with  taste  and  without  regard  to 
expense. 

For  a  moment  they  were  alone  in  this  pretty  bower 
196 


A    PARTIAL    INTOXICATION 

of  delight.  Then  a  door  opened  and  a  little  emaciated 
woman  appeared.  Lady  Fitzhenry  turned  to  her,  hand- 
ing her  one  of  Comanche's  cards. 

"  Herr  Comanche,  the  Baroness  Skeffingham,"  she 
said. 

Gordon  bowed  and  mentioned  the  pleasure  he  felt, 
but  the  lady,  after  a  peculiar  little  nod,  merely  trotted 
to  a  seat  at  the  table  and  made  ready  to  dine.  Roger 
must  have  looked  somewhat  of  the  astonishment  he 
felt,  for  Lady  Fitzhenry  said,  in  gay  badinage, — 

"  She  is  practically  stone  deaf,  and  she  doesn't  see 
very  well. 

"  How — how  very  unhappy,"  said  Roger. 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  Herr  Comanche,  for  you  know, 
even  with  you,  one  must  have  a  chaperon." 

He  had  been  amazed  to  find  that  he  was  to  lunch 
with  Lady  Fitzhenry  alone;  her  frankness  completed 
his  surprise.  But  she  smiled  at  him  engagingly.  As 
pink  and  as  fragrant  as  the  roses  that  beautified  the 
table  so  profusely,  as  warm  as  the  cat  asleep  on  the 
cushion,  and  as  bright  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  shining 
in,  she  impressed  him  with  a  new  description  of 
beauty.  With  her  shoulders  and  arms  merely  sug- 
gested, instead  of  being  revealed,  as  in  evening  dress, 
she  drew  his  gaze  only  to  her  face,  which  he  found 
almost  faultless  in  its  lines  of  feminine  loveliness. 
Her  hair  was  glossy,  light,  and  abundant.  Her  eye- 

197 


THE    INEVITABLE 


brows  were  intensely  black.  Her  eyes  were  brown. 
With  color  that  came  and  went,  dimples  that  played 
with  only  the  slightest  assistance,  and  a  red  mouth, 
as  sensuous  as  it  was  ready  with  smiles,  she  made  a 
picture  on  which  it  was  possible  to  gaze  for  long  with- 
out becoming  sated.  Her  gown  was  pretty  in  twenty 
ways  of  such  creations.  It  had  not  been  made  in 
London.  Parisian  witchery  seemed  woven  in  the  very 
fabric  of  its  costly  material. 

"  You  have  a  very  beautiful  home,"  said  Roger, 
in  honest  admiration  of  the  room.  "  I  wonder  if  there 
is  anything  left  that  your  heart  could  wish." 

He  thought  he  was  making  a  commonplace  remark ; 
it  had,  however,  no  commonplace  reception. 

"  My  poor  heart  is  the  one  thing  which  has  not  had 
its  wish,"  she  answered,  smiling  straight  into  his  eyes. 
"  Are  you  a  palmist,  or  any  sort  of  a  soothsayer,  Herr 
Comanche  ?" 

"  Alas,  I  fear  I  am  not.    Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  thought  you,  of  all  men,  could  tell  me  whether 
my  heart  will  ever  have  its  wish  or  not,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Her  meaning  was  too  Qbvious  to  be  missed.  Roger 
colored  boyishly.  He  said, — 

"You  have  a  rare  heart,  indeed,  if  it  really  knows 
what  it  wants." 

"  Why,  I  thought  every  one  knew  what  a  woman's 


A    PARTIAL   INTOXICATION 

heart  most  craves  to  possess,"  she  told  him,  with  af- 
fected innocence. 

"  I  must  plead  a  woful  ignorance,"  was  his  answer. 
"  Perhaps,  however,  you  will  enlighten  my  wretched 
mind.  What  would  you  say  it  is  that  a  woman's  heart 
so  fondly  desires?" 

"  Well — we  all — every  one  of  us — wish  first  to — to 
be  loved.  Every  woman  craves  that  most." 

"  Every  woman — all  women,"  Roger  repeated,  at- 
tempting to  extricate  himself  somewhat  from  a  posi- 
tion which  he  conceived  to  verge  on  the  perilous. 
"  This  is  a  great  burden  of  information  for  any  one 
man  to  assume.  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  impart  this 
knowledge  to  all  my  kind." 

"If  you  find  one  of  the  men  apparently  eager  to 
avoid  this  truth,  or  irresponsivee  to  all  that  it  ought 
to  convey,  what  shall  you  think  of  his  temperament?" 
she  inquired. 

Roger  colored  again,  with  the  consciousness  that 
she  was  whipping  himself,  thus  artfully,  over  the 
shoulders  of  some  imaginary  man.  He  looked  for  a 
second  into  her  eyes.  They  flashed  him  a  glance  as 
warm  as  June. 

"  I  should  always  go  deeper  than  mere  appearances 
before  I  form  a  judgment,"  he  responded.  "  We  used 
to  say  one  could  never  tell  from  the  look  of  a  frog 
how  far  he  could  jump — if  he  wished." 

199 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  From  a  woman's  point  of  view,  would  you  con- 
strue that  hopefully?"  she  inquired,  with  evident  in- 
terest. Had  she  asked  him  straightforwardly  whether 
she  could  hope  for  love  from  himself,  he  could  not 
have  felt  more  cornered.  This  farce  of  making  love 
to  her  ladyship  was  moving  with  a  swiftness  that 
alarmed  him.  He  had  never  been  frivolous-minded; 
he  had  never  gone  so  lightly  along  the  path  of  life  as 
to  blow  about  with  every  breath  of  the  zephyrs.  He 
could  not  readily  put  on  the  motley,  either  of  a  mild 
flirtation  or  a  game  at  deeper  passion. 

"  I  should  never  dare  attempt  to  construe  anything 
from  a  woman's  point  of  view,"  he  answered,  as  gayly 
as  possible.  "  Is  it  the  Bible  that  bids  us  beware  of 
building  a  house  on  the  shifting  sands  of  a  feminine 
point  of  view?" 

"  I  only  know  that  the  Bible  doesn't  counsel  any 
one  to  build  behind  the  stone  of  a  man's  blindness," 
she  retorted,  a  little  warmly. 

Gordon  confessed  to  himself  that  there  are  none  so 
blind  as  those  who  will  not  see,  but  he  made  no  ad- 
missions. A  score  of  times  he  was  tempted  to  utter 
some  word  of  reckless  passion.  To  abandon  himself 
to  the  mood  in  which  he  found  his  beautiful  companion 
would  have  been  so  dangerously  easy,  and  yet  he  found 
it  so  difficult. 

"  Ah,  poor  blind  man,"  he  sighed,  lugubriously. 
200 


A    PARTIAL    INTOXICATION 

Lady  Fitzhenry  mentally  acknowledged  his  clever- 
ness, and  liked  him  the  more. 

"  Poor,  pitiful  man,  indeed,"  she  agreed.  "  Are  you 
going  to  refuse  the  wine  again  to-day?" 

"  I  am  more  than  half  intoxicated  now,"  Roger 
assured  her.  "  And  there  is  still  the  drive  in  the 
park." 

A  mad  thought  that  wine  and  Lady  Fitzhenry  could 
bring  him  a  species  of  delight,  in  which  something 
approximating  oblivion  would  result,  was  in  his  brain. 
He  was  weary  of  fighting  to  drive  it  out.  Why  should 
he  so  exert  himself?  But  the  habit  of  his  life  had  been 
honest,  abstemious  living.  It  opposed  its  natural  bar- 
rier to  madness  now.  Yet  he  felt  that  perhaps  the 
day  would  come  when  the  pall  of  his  anguish  would 
obliterate  all  habits  that  formerly  governed  his  exist- 
ence. He  almost  hoped  this  might  be  so.  Nothing 
so  rankled  in  his  soul  as  that  one  bitter  irony  which 
Genevra  had  spoken  so  unwittingly  when  she  asked 
him  to  write  a  "  Paradise  Regained."  Could  the  wine 
but  wipe  that  out,  he  thought  he  should  hail  it  as  a 
boon. 

The  luncheon  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Without  a 
sign,  the  little  Baroness  Skeffingham  arose  and  disap- 
peared with  Lady  Fitzhenry.  They  were  both  soon 
ready  for  the  drive,  and  the  chaperon  appeared  to 
know  her  place  in  the  carriage  from  experience.  She 

201 


THE    INEVITABLE 


sat  on  the  forward  seat  and  folded  her  hands  de- 
murely. 

Roger  and  Lady  Fitzhenry  sat  together  in  the  cush- 
ions and  robes,  in  a  space  which  he  found  was  not  as 
wide  as  usual.  Up  through  a  fashionable  street  the 
carriage  rolled,  to  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  here,  with 
dozens  of  smart  conveyances,  it  glided  under  the  arch- 
way of  stone  and  into  the  Row,  with  its  tide  of  glint- 
ing vehicles  and  spirited  horses. 

Her  ladyship  chatted  in  her  brightest,  most  ani- 
mated style;  she  nodded  to  right  and  left,  at  scores 
of  London's  patricians.  Half  intoxicated,  as  he  said, 
Gordon  felt  his  spirit  of  recklessness  growing  upon 
him. 

But  at  length  they  passed  a  carriage  in  which  he 
saw  a  girl  with  a  white,  set  face.  She  nodded  so 
coldly  that  it  brought  all  of  his  gall  and  wormwood 
back,  to  make  him  sober. 

The  carriage  was  occupied  only  by  Miss  Melgand 
and  Genevra. 


202 


XX 

COLOSSUS   NO   LONGER   A  JOKE 

As  a  result  of  what  she  called  a  secondary  thought, 
which  is  always  one  way  of  disguising  deliberate  cal- 
culation, Lady  Fitzhenry  drove  Herr  Comanche  to 
the  home  of  one  of  her  friends.  The  Dowager  Duchess 
Farnham,  whom  this  personage  proved  to  be,  appeared 
to  Gordon  to  be  quite  prepared  for  the  visit.  Indeed, 
she  expected  Herr  Comanche  and  Lady  Fitzhenry  not 
only  to  have  some  tea,  but  to  remain  for  supper  as 
well. 

The  reason  for  desiring  so  much  of  his  company 
was  finally  rendered  comprehensible  to  Roger.  The 
Duchess  had  written  an  opera,  which  she  much  desired 
should  be  set  to  music  forthwith.  Her  work  was  not 
new.  Comanche  was  not  the  first  musical  genius  who 
had  thus  been  honored  by  the  dowager.  Her  volu- 
minous libretto  already  enjoyed  something  akin  to 
fame,  signified  at  times  when  some  man  who  knew 
of  it  nudged  another  of  his  sex  and  said,  "  I  see  you 
have  undergone  a  reading.  What  will  you  drink?" 

Lady  Fitzhenry  had  not  permitted  Herr  Comanche 
to  hear  the  work  on  this  occasion.  She  knew  too 
much  to  let  him  think  her  friends  the  sort  to  be  avoided, 
and  herself,  therefore,  indiscriminating.  But  the  dow- 

203 


THE    INEVITABLE 


ager  was  one  of  those  persons  who  create  a  wonderful 
first  impression ;  moreover,  her  suppers  were  famously 
charming.  Lady  Fitzhenry  was  satisfied  when  the  im- 
pression and  the  supper  had  worked  a  vague  back- 
ground of  possibilities  for  her  own  fair  charms  and 
thoughtfulness  to  shine  upon.  This  succeeded  so  well 
that  the  guileless  Roger  had  a  moment  of  splendid 
dreams  before  his  indifference  to  further  success  re- 
turned to  blight  all  his  hopes  and  desires. 

When  he  let  himself  in  at  the  quaint  little  house 
where  he  lived,  he  met  the  housekeeper  coming  down 
the  stairs. 

"  Your  friend  is  restin'  splendid,"  she  said.  "  He's 
been  quiet  all  the  evenin'." 

"Asleep?"    he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"  Have  you  heard  him  breathing  a  little  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  Gordon  murmured,  and  he  hastened 
up  to  the  floor  above  without  delay.  The  look  of 
worry  which  had  come  on  his  face  had  escaped  the 
woman's  observation.  He  knew  too  well  what  it  meant 
to  have  Colossus  lying  apparently  asleep  and  making 
no  sound. 

He  unlocked  his  own  apartments  first,  purposely 
making  a  noise.  Then  he  went  to  Fritz's  room,  en- 
tered, and  lighted  the  gas. 

204 


COLOSSUS    NO    LONGER   A   JOKE 

As  he  quite  expected,  Fritz's  two  round  eyes 
were  open  wide,  and  the  little  fellow's  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles  the  moment  the  light  fell  upon 
his  features. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  he  said,  a  little  faintly. 
"  I've  been  waiting.  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  without 
saying — good-night." 

"  I'd  wollop  you  good  if  you  did,"  said  Roger,  with 
a  poor  imitation  of  fun  in  his  voice.  "  I  meant  to  come 
home  a  little  earlier  to-day." 

"  I  think  I  could  have  waited  till  pretty  near  morn- 
ing," Colossus  told  him,  wistfully,  as  Roger  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "  But  I  did  want  to  say 
good-by." 

"  Good-by  ?"  Roger  echoed,  scolding  tenderly. 
"Don't  you  talk  to  me  of  saying  good-by,  you  big, 
burly  humbug,  Colossus.  That's  perfect  nonsense! 
I'm  going  to  get  you  out  of  here.  I'm  going  to  make 
you  laugh  till  the  rest  of  your  hair  falls  off  your 
head." 

"  I'm  laughing  now,"  said  Fritz,  weakly,  striving 
to  keep  his  lip  from  trembling.  "  You  always  make 
me  happy.  That's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you  when 
you  came  back.  You  don't  mind,  much,  all  the  trou- 
ble I've  been?" 

"  Fritz — don't  you  talk  this  sort  of  thing  to  me," 
Roger  chided,  in  the  way  that  usually  made  Colossus 

205 


THE    INEVITABLE 


brighter.     "You  promised  to  get  up  to-morrow,  and 
help  me  to  have  a  good  time." 

"You've  always  made  me  happy  when  no  one  else 
cared,"  said  Fritz,  looking  up  with  a  yearning  affection 
on  his  homely  face.  "  I  don't  know  why  you  did.  I 
couldn't  play,  and  I  couldn't  write  music,  and  I  think 
I  must  have  been  pretty  near  a  failure." 

"  You  weren't  anything  like  a  failure,  Colossus. 
You  know  more  about  music  than  hundreds  of  the 
fellows,"  Roger  told  him,  earnestly.  "  So  you  brace 
up  and  don't  talk  all  this  foolishness.  I'm  going  to 
get  you  well,  and  you'll  do  something  yet." 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  something,"  Fritz  echoed,  smiling 
wanly.  "  I  used  to  think  of  wonderful  music  that  I'd 
like  to  write,  but  couldn't,  and  beautiful  playing  that 
I  could  never  play,  but " 

"  Then  you've  got  to  make  up  your  mind  you'll  do 
it  all  yet,"  Roger  interrupted.  "  We'll  make  you  a 
genius — we  can,  if  only  you'll  laugh  more,  and  get 
yourself  well  and  strong." 

"  I've  tried  to  laugh — at  everything.  My  life  has 
been  a  joke,"  Fritz  told  him,  trying  to  smile  as  he 
talked  in  his  wavering  voice.  "  But  you  don't  think 
it  was  all  like  that?  I  helped  a  little  on  your  great 
work.  I  helped  you  finish  it  up,  and  you  let  me  play." 
He  turned  his  head  to  one  side,  in  his  old  way,  and 
looked  at  Roger  hungrily,  anxiously. 

206 


COLOSSUS    NO    LONGER   A   JOKE 

"  You  helped  me  when  I  needed  it  most,"  said  Roger, 
whose  voice  broke,  despite  his  efforts  to  speak  in  an 
off-hand  tone.  "  You  were  the  only  man  I  knew  who 
could  do  the  work  I  wanted.  But  now  I  want  you  to 
get  back  your  strength  for  more  good  work." 

"  I  helped  a  little,"  Fritz  repeated,  in  his  failing  joy. 
"  I'm  glad  I  came  home  to  you  again.  I  waited  for 
you  to  come.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  I  was  only  a 
joke,  before  I  said  good-by." 

Roger  could  have  groaned.  He  dared  not  reveal  the 
slightest  feeling  that  would  add  to  Fritz's  depression, 
but  to  jest  had  suddenly  become  impossible. 

"  I'll  not  permit  you  to  say  good-by,  or  anything  of 
the  sort,  Colossus,"  he  said.  "  Your  success  is  just 
coming  to  you  now.  You  scamp,  I  want  you  for  my 
partner." 

"  I  haven't  done  much  all  my  life,"  Colossus  said, 
feebly,  "  but  I  helped  you  finish  the  great  work." 

Gordon  saw  how  useless  it  was  to  rally  the  weary 
Colossus  with  fun.  He  had  one  resource  left. 

"  But  you  have  got  to  help  me  with  more  of  the 
music,"  he  insisted.  "  It  is  only  begun — only  half  has 
been  written.  I  shall  need  you  to  help  me  write  the 
other  half, — the  '  Paradise  Regained.'  " 

"  '  Paradise  Regained,'  "  echoed  Fritz.  "  You  see 
you  have  the  beautiful  thoughts,  and  I  never  had.  I'd 
spoil  it,  I  know.  I'd  never  make  anybody  feel — that 

207 


THE    INEVITABLE 


way.  Nobody  will  ever  like  what  you  write  more  than 
I  do.  But  you  can  write  it — so  much  better — without 
—me." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Roger.  "  You  make  me  light-hearted 
— joyous.  I  want  you  to  help.  I  need  you  to  help. 
You  have  got  to  get  well  and  help  me,  Colossus." 

"  I'm  so — glad  you — don't  think — I'm  all — a  joke," 
Colossus  faltered.  He  winked  his  eyes  slowly.  His 
affectionate  gaze  rested  on  Gordon's  countenance  a 
moment.  Then  he  turned  face  downward  and  lay  in 
absolute  quiet  on  the  pillow. 

"  Here,  Colossus,  you  humbug,"  said  Roger,  wrench- 
ing at  his  collar,  that  choked  him,  "  you  look  up  here 
— and  laugh.  I'll  get  my  violin.  I'll  play."  He  has- 
tened from  the  room.  Violin  in  hand  he  darted  down 
the  stairs  to  his  housekeeper's  room. 

"  Will  you  go  at  once  and  get  the  doctor  to  come 
again  ?"  he  said.  "  And  tell  him  to  bring  something 
strong."  Then  he  hastened  back  to  the  room  above. 

"  Fritz,"  he  coaxed,  "  look  up  here  and  tell  me  what 
to  play." 

Colossus  looked  up,  obediently,  his  head  on  one  side 
in  his  quaint  little  way.  His  eyes  were  strangely  wist- 
ful, even  for  him. 

"  I'd  rather  hear  you  talk,"  he  whispered.  "  Will 
you  let  me  lie  against  your  arm — just  for  a  moment — 
before  the  doctor  comes." 

208 


COLOSSUS    NO    LONGER   A   JOKE 

Roger  looked  at  him,  startled.  He  could  not  de- 
mand to  know  how  Fritz  knew. 

Kneeling  on  the  floor,  he  adjusted  the  little  fellow's 
head  on  his  arm  and  saw  the  light  of  fleeting  joy  that 
illumined  the  homely  face. 

"  My — home,"  faltered  Colossus.  "  I  could  have 
waited — longer;  but  I  am — so  glad — you — came." 

One  of  his  thin  white  hands  crept  slowly  up  to  Gor- 
don's shoulder  and  hung  there,  though  it  trembled. 
With  that  wistful  turn  of  his  head  to  the  side,  Fritz 
looked  at  Roger  and  smiled.  A  light  ineffable  burned 
in  his  eyes,  unsteadily.  He  closed  them  as  if  to  sleep. 

"  I — helped,"  he  sighed,  in  content. 

Then  the  wan  hand  slipped  down  from  the  place 
to  which  it  had  climbed.  There  was  one  more  faint 
breath.  That  was  all. 

Roger  remained  there  kneeling.  He  was  silent.  He 
made  no  movement.  He  could  not  believe  that  the 
one  faithful  being  who  had  clung  to  him  with  such  a 
genuine  affection  had  really  gone. 

He  touched  the  cool  forehead  with  his  hand  and 
looked  long  and  yearningly  at  the  white  face,  so  trans- 
figured at  last.  At  length  he  laid  the  freckled  cheek 
on  the  pillow  and  arose.  The  majesty  of  death  was 
already  coming.  The  smile  took  on  a  beauty  that  can 
never  come  till  the  final  touch  of  divinity  smoothes 
away  all  that  is  earthly  from  a  face. 
14  209 


XXI 

THE   WAY    OF   A    MAN 


SENSIBLE  that  he  owed  an  obligation  to  the  friends 
who  had  made  his  recital  possible,  Gordon  knew  his 
social  existence  could  not  be  ended  so  abruptly  as  his 
soreness  of  heart  would  dictate.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
fully  a  week  after  Fritz's  death  before  he  again  ap- 
peared at  Lady  Denby's  house. 

The  weather  had  suddenly  developed  towards  sum- 
mer heat.  Exodus  from  town  was  already  the  topic 
of  conversation.  Indeed,  the  stirrings  of  preparation 
for  the  social  flitting  to  river-side  and  sea-shore  were 
everywhere  to  be  heard.  Roger  was  glad  this  was  so. 
He  wished  to  get  away  from  London.  The  heat 
formed  an  acceptable  excuse.  But  where  he  would  go 
he  had  not  thought.  Vaguely  he  considered  the  Con- 
tinent as  a  haven  to  which  to  return. 

It  was  an  evening  party  again  which  had  brought 
together  a  number  of  Lady  Denby's  acquaintances. 

"  You  extravagant  boy,"  said  Lady  Denby  herself, 
when  she  had  greeted  Comanche  in  all  her  cordial 
spirit,  "  you  have  expended  enough  regrets  to  last  one 
a  lifetime  in  declining  so  often  to  be  seen.  Do  you 
know  that  you  deserve  to  have  lost  the  several  oppor- 
tunities to  write  music  for  important  persons,  which 

210 


THE   WAY    OF   A    MAN 


I  have  preserved?  You  do,  really.  And  this  may  be 
the  last  of  my  evenings.  I  can  tell  you  that  when 
every  one  leaves  the  town,  all  seriousness  and  thought 
of  work  are  placed  in  storage.  You  must  really  see 
some  of  these  music-searching  friends  without  delay." 

"  You  are  more  kind  than  I  deserve,  I  admit,"  said 
Roger.  "  I  wrote  you  a  little  about  the  friend  I  had 
lost.  But  sometimes  there  are  things  which  one  can- 
not bury — much  better  as  such  a  ceremony  might  prove 
to  be.  I  thank  you  for  thus  forgiving  me  so 
promptly." 

"  But  I  haven't  said  I  forgive  you  at  all,  Herr  Co- 
manche,"  she  protested. 

"  And  you  will  not  say  you  have  not,"  he  answered. 

"  I  do  forgive  you,"  she  told  him,  sincerely.  "  I 
could  wish  you  looked  as  happy  as  you  did  the  night 
we  met  you  first." 

"  I  must  do  so,  or  prove  myself  an  ingrate,"  he 
agreed,  smiling  at  her  gravely. 

"  You  are  never  that,"  she  told  him,  glancing  past 
him  to  where  some  new  arrivals  were  approaching. 
"  Now  say  some  nice  things  to  my  guests.  You  re- 
member meeting  Viscount  Farron,  Herr  Comanche?" 

She  glided  away  to  meet  the  friends  who  had  just 
arrived,  and  Roger  nodded  to  a  man  he  remembered 
to  have  seen  before.  This  bewhiskered  person  bobbed 
his  head  in  return. 

211 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  The  weather  has  turned  much  warmer,"  said  Gor- 
don. 

"  Bally  warm  weather  for  golf,"  replied  the  viscount, 
bow,  "  you  are  a  cruel  as  well  as  a  wicked  man." 

"  Herr  Comanche,"  said  a  pleasant  voice  at  his  el- 
bow, "  you  are  a  cruel,  as  well  as  a  wicked  man." 

He  turned  about  and  saw  the  bare  arms  and  shoul- 
ders and  the  beautiful  neck  and  hair  and  face  of  Lady 
Fitzhenry.  On  her  damask  cheek  flamed  a  color  more 
warm  that  that  of  the  roses  she  wore  at  the  top  of  her 
corsage,  where  they  rested  against  the  creamy  white- 
ness of  her  bosom. 

"  I  have  to  be  all  that  you  say,"  Roger  said,  "  to 
keep  fresh  the  interest  which  I  may  thereby  excite." 

"  Then  you  admit,  shamelessly,  that  it  has  been  de- 
liberate cruelty  that  kept  you  from  coming  to  see  me  ?" 

"  I  confess  I  have  been  cruel  to  myself." 

"Oh!  Then  I  cannot  forgive  you,  after  all,"  she 
told  him.  "  To  break  my  heart  might  be  excusable, 
but  to  pain  my  friends  is  a  deadly  sin.  You  didn't 
really  wish  to  come?" 

"  My  wishes  have  never  been  conspicuously  well  re- 
ceived by  fate,"  he  answered,  equivocally. 

"  That  is  not  an  answer.  You  did  not  really  wish 
to  see  me." 

"You  do  yourself  an  injustice,"  he  assured  her. 
"  But  had  I  seen  you  a  hundred  times,  you  would  not 

212 


THE    WAY   OF   A    MAN 


have  appeared  to  greater  advantage  than  you  do  to- 
night." 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  her  soft  brown  eyes  caress- 
ingly. "  I  wish  I  might  believe  you,"  she  murmured. 

"  Oh,  you  may,"  was  his  cheerful  answer,  for  he 
had  meant  far  less  than  might  have  been  supposed. 

"  I  will  if  you  will  take  me  for  something  cool," 
she  answered,  and,  slipping  her  hand  beneath  his  arm 
so  far  that  it  lay  upon  his  wrist,  she  guided  him  away 
from  the  room. 

Despite  himself,  he  felt  the  fascination  which  this 
beautiful  young  widow  exercised,  when  she  so  desired, 
for  any  man.  She  was  always  so  fragrant,  so  bright, 
so  voluptuously  radiant.  Temptations  to  drift  with 
her  whither  she  listed  had  become  more  natural  and 
more  insidious.  Yet  he  found  himself  looking  rest- 
lessly, yearningly  about  for  one  sweet  face,  the  mem- 
ory of  which,  in  its  whiteness,  haunted  him  day  and 
night.  She  was  not  to  be  seen.  She  was  there,  how- 
ever, jealously  watching  the  movements  of  Lady  Fitz- 
henry. 

To  think  at  all  of  Genevra  made  Gordon's  heart  ache 
dully.  He  knew,  as  he  searched  the  faces  there,  that 
the  time  had  come  when  he  must  leave  the  scenes  in 
which  he  beheld  her  from  time  to  time.  His  farce, 
so  far  as  it  had  gone,  had  wrung  him  till  his  heart 
was  weary  of  the  thought  of  courage. 

213 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  why  didn't  I  think  before  ?"  said  Lady  Fitz- 
henry.  "  The  conservatory  is  the  most  delightfully 
cooling  place  in  the  house." 

She  opened  a  door  that  led  to  the  house  of  glass,  and 
took  him  away  from  the  sound  of  the  chatter,  with  easy 
art.  The  perfume  of  leaves  and  blossoms,  the  plash 
of  a  tiny  fountain,  and  the  sense  of  calm  made  the 
place  delightful.  A  rustling  movement,  in  the  ferns 
on  the  farther  side,  escaped  their  attention. 

"  This  is  where  your  charity  begins,"  said  Roger, 
referring  to  her  thoughtfulness  in  conducting  him  into 
such  a  peaceful  bower. 

"  And  charity  should  never  end,"  she  told  him,  as 
they  came  to  a  rustic  bench,  in  which  she  sat,  and  drew 
him  to  a  place  beside  her.  "  I  could  tell  you  the  name 
of  a  king  who  sat  here  once." 

"  Indeed  ?  Then  I  must  make  this  seat  an  inch 
higher  at  once,  or  refuse  to  sit  here  longer." 

"  And  he  broke  a  lady's  heart,"  she  added. 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  answered,  "  a  king  can  do  no  wrong. 
And  I  have  found  that  a  duke  can  do  but  about  a  fifth 
of  a  wrong,  a  marquis  only  about  two-fifths  of  a 
wrong,  an  earl  about  a  third  of  a  wrong,  a  baron  less 
than  half  of  one,  and  even  a  capitalist  less  than  a 
whole  wrong.  It  is  only  the  plain,  poor  citizen  who 
can  commit  a  whole  wrong  in  this  world." 

"  But  it  is  more  than  a  wrong,  it  is  a  sacrilege,  to 
214 


THE    WAY    OF   A    MAN 


break  a  lady's  heart,"  she  answered.  "  And  even  a 
king  could  commit  a  sacrilege." 

"  I  believe  a  few  have  tried  the  experiment,"  he 
said. 

"  But  the  man  who  wouldn't  break  a  woman's  heart 
is  the  true  king  after  all,"  she  told  him,  looking  in 
his  eyes  candidly. 

"  And  they  say  something  about '  uneasy  is  the  head 
that  wears  a  crown/  "  Roger  replied,  with  an  indiffer- 
ence he  found  it  hard  to  assume. 

"  Then — wouldn't  you  care  to— be  a  king  of  that 
sort?" 

"  So  many  zealots  might  desire  my  abdication,"  he 
answered,  guardedly. 

"  But  no  one  could  make  you  abdicate,  if  a  woman's 
heart  were  your  throne." 

"Thrones  and  women's  hearts  have  much  in  com- 
mon, I  agree,"  said  Roger.  "  I  wonder  if  all  thrones 
are  as  hard  as  this  bench." 

"  They  are  soft  enough  when  they  are  women's 
hearts,"  she  murmured.  "  I  should  think  you  would 
like  to — to  try  one." 

"  I  should  never  feel  sure  I  knew  what  sort  I  want 
— these  days,"  he  told  her,  without  revealing  the  emo- 
tion she  had  stirred  within  him. 

"  But  if  you  married  some  woman  who  could  help 
you — who  liked  you  very  much,  and  who  had  the 

215 


THE    INEVITABLE 


means,  so  that  you  could  do  your  great  work  at 

ease It  might  be  some  advantage  if  she  had  a 

little  money  and — could  make  you  happy,  or — wouldn't 
you  wish  to  marry?" 

He  looked  at  her,  only  for  a  second.  Her  eyes  were 
ablaze  with  a  passionate  light ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
as  if  with  the  consciousness  of  their  own  warm  beauty ; 
her  bosom  moved  rapidly,  as  she  caught  her  breath 
through  her  red,  parted  lips. 

Roger  was  half  intoxicated  in  that  one  second.  She 
infatuated  all  his  senses  for  the  moment.  A  madness 
was  in  his  brain,  but  he  gripped  himself,  as  if  by 
habit. 

"  A  woman — is  so  hard  to  please,  according  to  some 
one,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  He  would  be  a  bold  man  who 
felt  sure  that "  and  he  left  it  unfinished. 

"  Sure  that  a  woman — loved  him  ?"  she  supplied,  in 
excitement  only  half  concealed.  "  Oh,  but  you  should 
know — the  signs.  Have  you  ever  played  '  She  loves 
me ;  she  loves  me  not'  ?  Here,  take  one  of  these  roses 
— and  play  it." 

She  leaned  towards  him  so  that  the  roses  fastened 
to  her  corsage  were  presented  to  him  irresistibly. 
They  trembled,  as  if  to  the  thrill  which  surged  through 
him,  racing  with  the  blood  that  leaped  in  his  veins. 
For  a  second,  deprived  of  the  power  to  think,  he  raised 
his  hands  to  one  of  the  buds  that  was  touching  her 

216 


THE    WAY    OF   A    MAN 


bosom.  His  fingers  shook.  Why  not?  Why  should 
he  not? 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  pin !"  she  gasped,  and  suddenly 
catching  his  hand  in  hers,  as  if  the  pin  were  hurting, 
she  pressed  it,  with  roses  and  all,  against  her  cool, 
soft  flesh  which  instantly  heated  beneath  the  contact 
of  his  touch. 

His  senses  reeled.  He  felt  he  should  clasp  her  in 
both  his  arms,  kiss  her — on  her  lips,  her  shoulders, 
crush  her,  so  fragrant  and  velvet  soft  she  was. 

Then  strangely  it  seemed  as  if  something  in  his 
heart  cried  out  in  pain. 

"  I  am  sorry — you  were  hurt,"  he  stammered, 
thickly.  "  I  was  awkward.  I'll  go  and  open  the  door 
for  air." 

He  had  extricated  his  hand  from  hers  with  one 
strong  movement.  He  arose  at  once,  unsteadily  but 
doggedly. 

"  Don't  go — not  for  a  moment,"  she  gasped.  "  I 
can't 

"  I  know — the  heat,"  he  said,  master  of  himself 
again  in  a  flash.  "  I  hope  you  will  not  faint.  I'll  open 
the  door.  I'll  ask  Lady  Denby  to  bring  you  her  salts." 

She  had  started  to  her  feet,  to  restrain  him.  But, 
as  if  in  great  solicitude  for  her  health,  he  strode  away. 
She  sank  on  the  bench,  breathing  like  a  spent  doe. 

Gordon,  who  had  no  intention  of  calling  Lady  Denby 
217 


THE    INEVITABLE 


into  requisition,  went  swiftly  to  the  door  that  led  to 
the  garden.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise  he  found  it 
already  open.  He  went  out. 

A  faint  sound,  as  of  some  one  crying,  attracted  his 
notice  at  once.  He  peered  through  the  weakened  light 
cast  in  the  garden  from  the  windows,  and  saw  the 
figure  of  a  girl,  who  was  leaning  against  a  tree  and 
softly  sobbing. 


218 


XXII 
FOUND 


HE  knew  who  it  was.  He  knew  she  had  heard, — 
how  much  could  make  but  little  difference.  Now  that 
the  all  he  had  started  out  to  do  was  accomplished,  he 
broke  down  in  all  his  resolution. 

"  God  help  me !  I  can't  endure  it  any  longer !"  he 
cried  to  himself,  in  anguish,  and  going  down  from  the 
low  veranda  he  stood  in  the  grass  and  wrung  his  hands 
in  silence. 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  came  in  a  little  cry  to  his  ears. 

He  thought  she  had  called  him.  She  had  not.  She 
had  only  breathed  his  name,  while  she  threw  herself 
against  the  tree  and  buried  her  face  in  the  curve  of 
her  arm. 

"  Genevra — I'll  tell  you — I'll  tell  you  everything," 
he  said,  as  he  went  towards  her  with  his  hands  pressed 
painfully  against  his  breast. 

She  turned  about  instantly  and  faced  him.  She 
caught  at  the  tree  and  held  herself  away  from  it  as 
she  looked  at  him,  wildly. 

"  Go  away.  I  don't  wish  to  see  you.  I  hate  you !" 
she  said,  in  a  voice  still  shaken.  "  You  can  have  her. 
I  wish  you  would  leave  me — at  once !" 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  repeated,  simply.  "  I  don't 
219 


THE    INEVITABLE 


care,  now.  I'd  rather  tell  you  and  let  you  hate  me 
more." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  listen.  I  don't  wish  to  see  you. 
You've  no  right  to  come  here,"  said  Genevra,  still 
clinging  to  the  tree  for  support.  "  I  don't  care  for 
anything  about  you.  I — never  cared — never!"  She 
stamped  her  foot  in  anger.  "  Leave  me — directly !" 
she  commanded. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  never  cared,"  he  said,  in  his 
melancholy  calm.  "  But  I  cared — so  much  I  couldn't 
tell  you — couldn't  bear  to  have  you  know  that  I'm — 
that  I'm  not  an  Indian." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
want  you  to  tell  me  anything.  Why  should  I  care  to 
hear  anything  about  you — and  Lady  Fitzhenry?  I 
wish  to  be — alone." 

"  I  knew  you  would,  as  soon  as  you  knew  about 
me,"  he  told  her.  "  I  was  too  big  a  coward  to  tell 
you  before,  and  to  go  away,  but  now  I  want  you 
to  know  it  all.  I  don't  care  anything  about  Lady 
Fitzhenry,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to  tell  you  the  truth 
before." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  breaking  her  heart,  as  you  broke 
— I  don't  wish  to  speak  to  you  again.  Why  don't  you 
go  away?" 

She  had  turned  about  to  face  him,  with  her  shoulder 
to  the  tree.  She  was  trying  to  stifle  her  pent-up  emo- 

220 


FOUND 

tions  and  to  dash  away  her  tears  with  her  handker- 
chief. 

"  I  am  going — now  that  I've  told  you  what  I  am — 
an  octoroon,"  he  said.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and 
then  added :  "  Good-by." 

He  turned,  as  she  made  no  reply,  and  started  away. 

"  Roger — Mr.  Gordon,"  she  said,  "  you — I  have  a 
right  to  know  what  you  mean." 

He  came  back,  still  clutching  one  of  his  hands  in 
the  other  and  gripping  it  till  it  ached. 

"  I  have  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell,"  he  said.  "  I 
found  out  who  I  am,  and  why  my  face  is  dark,  the 
morning  after  the  recital.  I  am  not  part  Indian,  as 
you  have  always  thought.  It  is  worse  than  that."  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  gazed  at  her  wistfully  out 
of  his  brilliant,  mournful  eyes.  "  I  was  cursed,  I  was 
sickened,  all  my  boyhood  through,  by  my  darkened 
face,"  he  continued,  unflinchingly ;  "  but  the  darkness 
came  because  my  father's  mother  was — mulatto.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  tell  this — to  you.  I  knew  you  would 
scorn  me.  But  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I'll  go,  for  that  is 
all  there  is  to  say." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  she  answered,  almost  impatiently. 
"  I  don't  care  anything  about  all  that.  But  you ! — 
the  things  you  have  done!  I  didn't  think  you  could 
treat  me  so — after  all  that  you  knew — after  every- 
thing. That  is  what  I  want  explained." 

221 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  I  have  confessed  I  was  too  great  a  coward  to  let 
you  know  what  I  am,"  Roger  repeated,  patiently.  "  I 
could  not  bear  to  have  you  know  and  turn  away  from 
me — for  that.  I  have  been  a  greater  coward  in  what  I 
have  done.  I  tried  to  make  you  think  me  unworthy — 
and  you  see  how  well  I  succeeded." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  done  these  things  to  make 
me  despise  you?" 

"  That  is  a  harsh  way  to  say  it — yes." 

"  I — don't  see  how  you  could,"  she  said,  brokenly, 
and  turned  with  her  face  again  to  the  tree. 

Gordon  was  terribly  wrung.  He  came  closer  to 
where  she  was. 

"I  thought — it  would  fall  on  me,"  he  said.  "It 
was  all  because  I  loved  you  so — because  I  have  loved 
you  so  long,  so  wholly." 

"  You ! — love !"  she  laughed,  in  a  paroxysm  of  cry- 
ing. The  sound  was  dreadful.  "  If  I  could  only  hate 
you! — if  I  could — if  I  could!  I  do! — and  I  wish — 
you'd  go  away — and — leave  me — now !" 

"  I'll  go,"  he  answered,  still  patiently.  "  But  I  have 
loved  you — beter  than  life — all  these  years.  Won't 
you  say — good-by?" 

"If  you  loved  me  you  would  have  trusted  me  com- 
pletely; you  would  have  known  I  shouldn't  care  for 
anything  but  what  you  are  to  me,"  she  said,  less  in 
anger.  "  You  haven't  told  me  the  truth." 

222 


FOUND 

"  Oh,  Genevra,  send  me  away,"  he  begged.  "  I 
have  told  you  everything — more  than  I  thought  I  could 
tell  to  any  one.  I  have  told  you  because  I  love  you 
— love  you  more  than  happiness,  or  pride,  or  life. 
Please  believe  that — only  believe  that — and  I  can  go." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  His  words,  in  all 
their  poignancy,  had  gone  deep  into  her  heart. 

"  If  you — wish  to  leave  me,  Roger, — go,"  she  fal- 
tered, and  looking  at  him  fondly,  with  the  tears  still 
in  her  eyes,  she  held  out  her  hand. 

He  knew  at  last  that  he  could  not  go. 

"  You  do  not  care — for  what  I  am  ?"  he  said.  And 
the  answer  in  her  eyes  was  all  his  heart  could  wish. 

Almost  overcome,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  gently  to  his  breast.  His  lips  trembled,  but  he 
could  not  speak.  She  clung  to  him,  shaken  convul- 
sively, weakened  by  the  tumult  of  reaction  and  happi- 
ness suddenly  come  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  oh,  Roger,"  was  all  she  could  murmur 
as  she  lay  against  his  shoulder. 

He  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  she  laughed  and 
cried  together.  He  kissed  her  hands  and  her  hair, 
and  crooned  her  name  till  she  felt  all  the  sadness  in 
his  nature  laid  bare  at  last,  when  this  joy  came  to 
open  wide  his  heart.  It  was  almost  terrible  to  feel, 
as  she  did,  what  his  sensitive  nature  had  suffered.  A 
thousand  days  of  protestations  could  not  have  borne 

223 


THE    INEVITABLE 


in  the  truth  of  his  love  at  this  one  brief  moment  of 
mingled  pain  and  ecstasy  was  doing  now. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  my  own  darling  Roger,"  she  whis- 
pered at  last,  "  I  am  sorry,  dear,  for  all  I  said.  How 
could  I  know?  My  heart  was  breaking.  Had  you 
really  gone,  my  heart  would  have  stopped  its  beat- 
ing." 

He  looked  in  her  eyes.  Such  fathomless  depths  of 
emotion  as  she  saw  in  his  gaze  filled  her  soul  with  awe 
of  the  sacredness  of  love. 

"  It  is  terrible  to  love  any  one  as  I  love  you,  Ge- 
nevra," he  told  her  presently.  "  I  love  you  more  than 
my  hope  of  heaven  and — God  forgive  me — more  than 
God  Himself." 

She  nestled  to  him.  "  I  am  so  glad.  My  Roger," 
she  answered. 

From  the  open  windows  came  sounds  of  music. 
Then  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lady  Denby. 

"  Genevra,  where  are  you,  child  ?"  called  her  lady- 
ship. 

Genevra  held  up  her  lips  and  Roger  kissed  her  once 
again.  She  tucked  her  little  hand  in  his  and  they 
started  together  for  the  house. 

Near  the  door  of  the  open  conservatory  Lady  Fitz- 
henry  glided  away  to  the  cover  of  a  shadow,  and  with 
anger  and  scorn  in  her  blazing  eyes  watched  the  pair 
as  they  entered  with  their  hostess. 

224 


XXIII 

ROGER'S    ADVOCATE 


GENEVRA'S  father  considered  that  he  best  performed 
the  functions  of  a  mother  to  his  otherwise  motherless 
girl  when  he  exercised  his  privilege  of  consenting  to 
whatsoever  she  very  much  desired.  If  her  mother  had 
lived,  he  argued,  the  two  of  them  together  would  have 
inveigled  all  manner  of  consents  from  him  anyway, 
wherefore  his  mind  should  always  be  made  up  as  if 
the  mother  and  bairn  had  worked  their  will  upon  it. 

Impulsive  as  he  knew  Genevra  to  be,  he  had  never 
yet  had  occasion  to  regret  his  complaisance  with  her 
moods.  He  loved  her  dearly  and  trusted  her  im- 
plicitly. Fortunately,  he  told  himself,  she  had  never 
desired  to  do  anything  unwholesome  or  indiscreet.  He 
was  waiting  for  that  day  to  come  in  which  she  would 
tell  him  she  had  chosen  a  mate,  with  all  the  patience 
he  would  have  expended  on  any  microscopic  subject. 
That  such  a  day  had  not  yet  arrived  seemed  to  him, 
when  he  thought  upon  it,  rather  peculiar.  Genevra 
was  a  beautiful  child,  and  she  was  clever,  good,  and 
honest. 

They  had  moved  up  to  Datchet,  on  the  Thames,  for 
the  summer.  He  was  carefully  rearranging  his  micro- 
scopes and  their  attendant  paraphernalia  in  one  of  the 
15  225 


THE    INEVITABLE 


sunny  rooms  that  faced  the  river  when  Genevra  came 
in  upon  him.  She  was  flushed  with  the  happiness  of 
youth  and  love;  she  must  needs  run  across  the  room 
to  where  he  was,  to  express  her  mood  of  liveliness. 
She  kissed  him  on  top  of  his  head,  then  on  the  cheeks, 
and  then  on  the  lips. 

"  That's  the  sign  of  the  four,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  I  thought  it  was  coming  the  moment  you 
entered  the  room,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  pushed  his 
glasses  up  on  his  forehead  and  gripped  the  lower  part 
of  his  smooth-shaven  face  in  his  big,  freckled  hand. 
"  So  you  want  my  consent  to  something  you  deem 
important." 

"  You  shall  be  deemster  yourself,"  she  said,  tossing 
up  a  handful  of  rose  leaves  and  catching  only  two. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married.  Do  you  deem  that  im- 
portant." 

Her  father  sat  down  and  took  his  glasses  entirely 
off.  "  You  might  fare  far  and  come  back  to  me  with 
something  more  trivial,"  he  said.  "  When  is  the  inci- 
dent to  happen?" 

"  Well,  I  am  only  engaged  at  present,"  she  amended. 
"  Do  you  remember  all  that  I  read  you  about  the  won- 
derful young  composer,  Herr  Comanche?" 

"  Not  quite  all,  but  some  of  it,  yes.  You  have  not 
told  him  that  I  possess  a  Strad  ?  He  is  not  asking  your 
hand  to  obtain  your  daddy's  violin?" 

226 


ROGER'S    ADVOCATE 


"  Indeed,  he  thinks  I  am  far  more  valuable,"  said 
Genevra.  "  He  knows  me  better  than  you  do,  dad- 
kins,  already." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  does.  That's  the  way  of  the 
world.  And  yet  I  know  so  much  of  you,  after  all, 
that  I  have  thought  of  this  moment  most  earnestly 
and  with  many  of  a  foolish  old  man's  regrets.  Who  is 
this  Herr  Comanche?" 

"  Dear  dadkins,  we  have  got  on  together  famously, 
and  I  love  you  so  much,"  she  said,  as  a  preliminary. 
"  And  now  I  want  you  to  read  this  paper,  for  he  said 
I  must  have  you  read  it  first,  and  then  I  want  you  to 
bless  us  directly — and  then  something  else.  Read  it 
fast,  dadkins, — it's  only  one  of  his  whims." 

She  gave  him  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  Roger 
had  copied  everything  explanatory  of  his  lineage 
which  his  father  had  written  for  his  final  perusal. 
Gordon  had  insisted  that  Genevra's  father  should  know 
who  and  what  he  was  without  delay.  To  this  Genevra 
had  consented  the  more  readily  as  she  knew  her  own 
powers  of  argument  with  her  parent. 

"  Gallop  through  it,  dadkins,  I've  something  else  I 
want  to  say,"  she  said,  impatiently.  "  It  is  only  to 
satisfy  poor,  morbid  Roger." 

"  He  asked  you  to  show  me  this  ?"  said  the  man, 
when  he  had  read  to  the  vital  point  of  what  was 
written. 

227 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Yes.    Have  you  read  it  through  ?" 

"  You  don't  mind  this,"  said  he,  with  his  finger  on 
the  paper, — "  this  strain  of — darker  blood  ?" 

"  No ;  of  course  not.  Why  should  I  ?  He  is  mostly 
Scotch,  like  us,  and  German,  French,  and  English," 
she  answered.  "  It's  only  an  eighth.  It  doesn't 
amount  to  anything  at  all." 

"  You  should  be  very  sure  that  what  you  feel  is  not 
infatuation,  merely,"  he  told  her.  "  Genuine  love  is 
bad  enough.  I  thought  you  liked  young  Lennox — 
perhaps  that  way." 

"  I  do  like  Algy,  of  course,  but  not  that  way.  But 
Roger — I  have  loved  for  years,"  she  said,  with  all 
that  sincerity  and  out-spoken  honesty  he  knew  so 
well.  "  When  you  took  me  abroad  to  the  States  I  was 
only  a  child,  but  I  saw  him  then,  just  once.  Don't 
you  remember? — he  was  the  boy  who  saved  me  from 
the  snake.  And  I  have  liked  him  ever  since, — and 
now  more  than  ever.  Is  that  an  infatuation,  dadkins, 
do  you  think?" 

"  You  never  told  me  that  you  felt  like  that  towards 
any  boy." 

"  No,  dadkins.  What  would  have  been  the  use,  if 
we  had  never  met  again  ?  Or  even  if  he  had  not  cared 
for  me  when  we  did  meet,  there  would  have  been  no 
reason  for  telling.  But  now,  you  see,  I  want  your 
consent — and  your  blessing  for  us  both." 

228 


ROGER'S    ADVOCATE 


"  It  is  a  serious  matter.  I  always  liked  Lennox.  I 
wish  you  to  marry  well — wisely,"  he  said. 

"  And  happily — oh,  happily  first !"  she  replied. 
"  You  did  that  yourself." 

"  He  is  a  gentleman  ?"    said  the  man,  evasively. 

"  He  is,  oh,  he  is — and  he's  a  man  as  well,"  she 
answered,  proudly.  "  He  is  so  refined,  so  modest,  so 
gifted !  All  London  is  at  his  feet,  and  he  doesn't  seem 
to  know  it.  They  have  called  him  a  genius;  they 
have  made  him  a  social  lion,  but  none  of  them  knows 
how  truly  great  he  is,  nor  what  he  can  do.  He  has 
won  his  fame  already.  The  critics  call  him  a  genius 
of  the  greatest  magnitude,  but  how  unspoiled  he 
is !  How  gentle  and  cultured  he  always  is !  He's 
the  real,  noble-hearted  gentleman  that  my  own  dad- 
kins  has  always  been — or  how  could  I  love  him  as 
I  do?" 

"  And  how  much  a  year  will  his  music  earn  ?"  he 
inquired. 

"  Oh,  nearly  anything  he  wishes,"  said  Genevra, 
with  ingenuous  assurance.  "  But  his  father  left  him 
— what  he  calls  a  little  fortune,  so  that  will  be  quite 
all  right." 

"  Do  you  love  him  enough  to  run  away  with  him, 
lass,  if  I  refused  my  consent?"  her  father  asked  her, 
gravely. 

"  Yes,  dadkins,"  she  told  him,  frankly,  "  I  do.  You 
229 


THE    INEVITABLE 


ran  away  with  my  mother,  you  know.  But  you  will 
not  refuse  your  consent.  You  mustn't — you  can't." 

"  He  appears  to  be  honest,  to  send  me  this,"  he  said, 
as  he  gave  her  the  paper.  "  I  should  like  to  meet 
him,  before  we  say  anything  further  on  the  subject." 

"  I  want  you  to  see  him.  I  want  you  to  ask  him 
to  come  to  Datchet  and  stop  with  us  for  the  summer," 
she  answered,  slipping  her  arm  about  his  neck.  "  Then 
you  will  be  the  first  one  to  tell  me  I  am  not  a  foolish 
child." 

"  I — hope  so,"  he  told  her.  "  I  am  sorry  it  isn't 
Lennox,  but — we  shall  see." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust — some — to  your  judg- 
ment," she  said,  eagerly.  "  I  know  you  will  like  him. 
You  are  always  such  a  dear,  kind  dadkins — and  wise. 
I'll  telegraph  him  directly  to  come."  She  kissed  him 
fondly  and  ran  away  to  summon  Gordon  forthwith  to 
the  scene. 

She  and  her  father  met  him  at  the  train,  for  which 
little  courtesy  they  found  themselves  obliged  to  go 
to  the  station  three  several  times  before  he  arrived. 

Genevra  ran  to  him  gayly  and  dragged  him  by  both 
his  hands  to  her  "  stern,  forbidding  parent,"  as  she 
dubbed  her  father  when  she  introduced  the  dignified 
Gordon. 

Harberton  looked  at  him  critically.  He  had  not 
been  prepared  to  find  him  so  dark,  but  he  had  expected 

230 


ROGER'S    ADVOCATE 


features  far  less  classical  and  a  manner  a  little  spe- 
cious. He  mentally  agreed  that  Gordon  was  a  gentle- 
man, handsome  enough,  and  evidently  cultured.  He 
even  found  himself  forgetting  soon  that  the  man's  face 
was  of  so  deep  a  bronze. 

Whatsoever  the  affinity  was  that  Roger  possessed 
for  Genevra,  it  was  somewhat  communicated  to  her 
father.  Harberton's  prejudice  slipped  from  him 
swiftly. 

"  If  you  are  certain  you  prefer  him  to  all  the  world," 
he  said  to  Genevra  in  the  evening,  "  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  consent." 


231 


XXIV 

THEIR   DAY    OF   SUMMER 


FROM  Hampton  Court  to  the  long  calm  reaches  of 
the  river  beyond  Windsor  there  was  not  a  nook  of 
beauty  and  seclusion  that  Roger  and  Genevra  failed 
to  find.  Morning,  mid-day,  and  evening  the  Thames 
is  a  thing  of  beauty  and  charm.  With  pollarded  wil- 
lows, meadows  that  slope  away  from  its  brink,  trees 
that  hang  Narcissus-like  on  the  bank,  to  catch  their 
own  reflected  loveliness,  windings  that  lay  the  sky 
at  the  feet  of  swans  or  wading  boys,  and  with  swal- 
lows dipping  throughout  the  lazy  day,  it  entices  first 
to  its  bosom,  and  next  to  its  bank,  and  then  again  to 
its  placid  breast  till  its  magic  excites  the  senses  to  a 
species  of  ecstatic  desperation. 

"  I  could  float  here  forever,  with  only  you,"  said 
Genevra  one  day,  from  her  seat  on  the  cushions  in  the 
bottom  of  the  punt,  "  and  yet  we  love  the  woods  so 
much,  we  should  spend  a  day,  at  least  once  a  week, 
in  some  of  the  forests.  Let's  begin  to-morrow  with 
Burnham  Beeches.  Dadkins  is  getting  to  be  a  regular 
boy  since  you  came  to  help  me  take  him  out  of  the 
house.  I  am  sure  he  will  go  to-morrow." 

The  secret  of  always  obtaining  one's  wish  is  to 
wish  for  something  that  is  easily  obtained.  Roger 

?32 


THEIR    DAY    OF    SUMMER 

and  Genevra,  having  found  each  other,  had  nothing 
but  simple  wishes  left  to  express.  They  wished  to  go 
to  the  beeches;  they  went.  They  wished  her  father 
would  pother  about  with  his  field  microscope,  or  fall 
asleep  beneath  a  tree;  he  did  both. 

"  If  only  we  could  find  a  little  stream  where  I  could 
stand  out  on  the  rocks  in  the  middle,"  she  said,  "  then 
you  could  come  by,  on  your  way  to  string  your  'cello 
again,  and  I  could  scream  at  a  twig  for  a  snake,  and 
you  could  run  to  save  me,  and  then  I'd  take  your  hand, 
and  we'd  go  to  your  'cello  together.  I'd  like  that, 
dear.  And  then  I  would  greet  you,  just  as  if  it  were 
the  very  first  time.  Oh,  wasn't  that  first  greeting 
sweet!  And  the  first  one  when  we  found  each  other 
in  the  garden  at  Lady  Denby's — and  this  one !" 

He  kissed  her  and  she  turned  rosy  red.  He  took 
her  hand  and,  pressing  it  first  to  his  lips,  held  it  against 
his  cheek  till  she  put  up  the  other  and  drew  down  his 
face  to  her  upturned  lips,  so  sweet  and  soft. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  so  long  ago — that  day  when  I  saw 
you  first,"  he  said.  "  I  remember  it  all  so  vividly." 

"  And  how  did  I  seem  to  you  then  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Tell  me  how  I  looked." 

"  You  looked  like  one  of  the  little  Rhine  maidens, 
come  up  from  your  tiny  river,  where  you  had  the  care 
of  the  gold.  And  your  hair  had  the  gold  all  in  it, 
safe — where  no  one  could  take  it." 

233 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  No  one  but  you,"  she  interrupted.  "  I'll  take  it 
down  and  put  it  all  in  your  hands." 

Swiftly  she  shook  out  the  plaits  and  coils  till  a 
shimmering  cascade  of  the  nugget-gold  strands  hung 
all  about  her  beautiful  face.  Her  gray  eyes  danced 
in  their  own  warm  light  as  she  drew  the  masses  over 
her  shoulder  and  hung  the  long  glossy  ringlets  across 
his  fingers. 

"  Did  I  look  like  that  ?"  she  whispered  to  him, 
happily. 

"  Ah,  yes,  sweetheart,  yes,  you  did,  only  now  you 
are  even  more  beautiful  than  then.  But  I  thought 
there  could  never  be  another  sight  so  sweet  as  you 
were  that  day, — and  there  never  was,  till  now." 

"  And  you  looked  so  sturdy  and  handsome,  dear," 
she  said,  as  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and 
looked  in  his  eyes.  "  I  had  never  seen  a  boy  like  you 
before.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  to  stay.  I  wanted  to 
say,  '  I  like  you — don't  go  away.'  But  I  didn't.  I 
was  very  proper." 

"  And  I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  away  from  your 
dear  face,  and  I  fell  like  the  clumsy  boy  that  I 
was,"  he  laughed.  "  It  was  the  sweetest  day  in  the 
world." 

"  And  such  a  terrible  day,  too,"  she  said,  in  awe 
of  the  memory  of  what  had  followed  their  happy  meet- 
ing. 

234 


THEIR    DAY    OF    SUMMER 

"  It  ended  terribly,"  he  echoed.  For  a  second  a  light 
of  dread  came  in  his  eyes  and  made  them  grave. 

"  We  mustn't  think  of  that,"  Genevra  told  him 
brightly.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  again  what  you 
thought  the  first  night  we  met,  at  Lady  Denby's — 
after  all  those  years — and  how  you  didn't  know 
me.  You  didn't  really  mean  you  were  falling  in 
love  with  me,  and  thought  it  a  treachery  to  that  other 
time?" 

"  I  did.  What  a  funny  little  talk  we  had !  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  girl  in  all  my  life. 
I  even  forgot  my  little  Genevra.  I  fell  in  love  with 
you  then  and  there,  all  over  again." 

"  And  I  a  perfect  stranger !"  she  said.  "  Roger ! 
what  a  naughty  boy  you  were.  Aren't  you  ashamed 
for  forgeting — everything  I  said — and  did — that  day 
when  first  we  met?  But  I  am  glad.  It  was  sweet 
to  have  you  love  me  again.  But  I  thought  things. 
I  thought  you  meant  Lady  Fitzhenry.  Oh,  if  it  had 
been  that,  I  shouldn't  have  wanted  to  live.  And  you 
did  treat  me  dreadfully  that  day  when  I  poured  you 
the  tea.  And  when  I  saw  you  driving  in  the  park 
with — her,  oh,  that  was  terrible!" 

"  Two  poor  things  that  we  were,"  he  said,  laughing 
at  her  gayly. 

"You  were  a  poor  dear  thing,"  she  said.  "But 
when  you  gave  your  recital  that  night,  I  loved  you  so 

235 


THE    INEVITABLE 


I  didn't  care  for  anything.  The  sad  parts  broke  my 
heart.  I  don't  see  how  you  ever,  ever  wrote  it." 

"  It  wrote  itself,"  he  answered  her,  seriously.  "  It 
wasn't  half  sad  enough  to  tell  the  way  I  felt,  here  in 
my  heart.  Precious,  it  doesn't  seem  true  that  I  really 
have  the  right  to  love  you  now  so  much  as  I  do,  for 
I  never  seemed  meant  for  such  a  happiness." 

"  Yes,  you  were,  and  I  was  meant  to  make  you 
happy,  dearest.  Do  you  think  I  really  can?  I  want 
to,  so  much.  If  love  can  do  it,  I  know  I  shall.  And 
your  love  makes  me  so  happy  that  I  think  it  can." 

"  That's  it,"  said  Roger,  as  he  held  her  hands  against 
his  breast,  "  I  am  so  strung  tight  with  happiness  that 
I  am  almost  afraid  something  will  break.  I  don't 
know  how  my  heart  can  hold  it  all." 

"  You  aren't  afraid  to  be  happy,  dear  ?" 

"Almost,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

"  Then  you  are  sorry  you  love  me,"  she  said,  re- 
proachfully. 

"Sorry?  I  am  reckless  in  my  gladness.  All  the  joy 
of  the  world  seems  surging  in  my  breast.  I  can't  pour 
it  out,  it  comes  so  mightily.  I  love  you  as  if  all  the 
love  bequeathed  by  the  hordes  of  lovers  gone  before 
had  come  upon  me  clamoring  for  sanctuary.  My  joy 
is  so  deep  that  I  could  comprehend  no  more.  You  are 
all !  All !  I  can't  speak  it  out.  No  words,  no  music, 
could  suffice  to  reveal  the  God-sent  gladness  of  my 

236 


THEIR    DAY    OF    SUMMER 

heart.  Though  jealous  destiny  should  slay  me  now 
for  daring  so  to  love  you,  dear,  I'd  cry  out  still  how 
glad — how  supernally  glad  you  have  made  me  with 
your  precious  love!" 

He  knelt  as  he  spoke  and  looked  up  in  her  sweet, 
earnest  face  with  a  light  ineffable  in  his  eyes. 

A  tidal  wave  of  passion's  ecstasy  swept  coursing 
through  her  being.  And  then  for  a  second  she  knew 
the  fear  of  those  who  love,  indeed. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  be  careful  how  you  talk  like  that  of 
destiny,"  she  cautioned.  "  I  love  you  so !  I  love  you 
so!"  She  placed  her  arms  about  his  neck  as  if  to 
protect  him  from  the  unseen  Fates.  She  was  silent 
then,  but  she  gave  him  a  smile  that  was  more  than 
caresses. 

"  Let's  sit  on  this  tree  and  talk  about  things,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  writing 
'  Paradise  Regained.' " 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  of  it,  dearest?" 

"  Oh,  tell  me  how  you  shall  do  it,  and  what  the  story 
will  be.  I  want  to  know  about  glad  things.  And 
love  must  be  in  it,  or  how  could  it  be  a  paradise 
regained?  How  could  a  paradise  be,  without  a  lot 
of  love?  It  couldn't.  But  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
do  it  all — write  such  music,  I  mean — music  that  will 
tell  it  all.  I  could  write  it,  dearest,  but  not  in 
music." 

237 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Could  you,  precious  ?  And  what  would  you  write 
it  in?" 

"  I'll  whisper  it  to  you,"  she  answered,  blushing 
radiantly,  and,  drawing  down  his  head,  with  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  she  said,  "  Oh,  I  can't.  I  would  write 
it  like  that,"  and  she  gave  him  a  little  kiss  on  the 
cheek.  "  I  could  write  it  in — those — dearest.  They 
would  be  little  sad  ones  at  first,  but  when  we  had 
regained  our  paradise  they  would  be  so  rapturous. 
There  would  be  so  much  to  tell — as  there  is,  between 
us.  And  I  was  so  sad  when  our  paradise  was  lost, 
and  so  hungering  for  your  love — and  those — all  that 
long,  long  time  we  were  waiting." 

"  Little  heart!"  he  said  to  her,  fervently,  and,  taking 
her  warmly  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  till  her  lips  were 
hot  and  her  cheeks  aflame. 

"  It's — too  much,"  she  finally  gasped,  as  her  eyes 
looked  their  love  into  his.  "  I  can  hardly  bear  it — to 
be  so  hungry  for — our  paradise.  I  would  rather  live 
here  forever,  in  this  wood,  with  you  than  to  go  to 
any  other  heaven — with  lots  of  other  people.  Oh, 
dearest,  you  mustn't  write  it  quite  like  this.  Not  with 
our  sweet  joy  revealed.  This  is  our  own  paradise. 
I  don't  want  you  ever  to  tell  of  our  own  sacred  para- 
dise, not  even  in  music — not  of — all  this — and — kisses, 
I  mean." 

"  I  couldn't,"  he  said.  "  No  music  could  tell  of  the 
238 


THEIR    DAY    OF    SUMMER 

love  that  burns  in  my  heart.  Music,  if  it  rose  to  such 
a  height,  could  never  stop.  I  mean  it  would  burst 
past  control.  It  could  never  be  so  passionate  and  yet 
so  chaste  as  love.  Even  music  would  be  too  gross  to 
tell  of  such  a  love  as  I  have  for  you,  my  little  soul's 
desire.  No,  this  is  ours,  and  ours  alone.  This  is  para- 
dise real ;  in  my  music,  I  know  at  last,  it  will  only  be 
a  fiction." 

"  I  knew  you  understood,"  she  answered,  ardently. 
"  A  paradise  really  once  grasped — any  paradise  but 
this — will  leave  nothing  more.  But  the  yearning  for 
love  is  so  sweet.  I  like  so  to  starve  for  you  and  your 
words  of  love — and  never  have  enough,  and  starve 
again  and  again.  I  never  want  to  have  enough — and 
yet  I  mustn't  be  starved  too  much — and  that  will  be 
paradise  for  us.  And  you'll  not  write  that.  So  there," 
and  she  gave  him  one  more  kiss.  "  Now  tell  me  what 
the  story  will  really  be." 

"All  the  world  is  full  of  poor  Adams  and  Eves," 
he  said.  "  The  story  for  one  pair  is  the  story  for  all. 
We  all  do  a  little  wrong  and  a  little  right.  We  are  all 
oppressed  by  the  sadness  of  life,  with  its  births  and 
deaths,  and  we  all  therefore  need  to  hope.  We  must 
have  hope.  If  that  is  lost,  where  is  paradise?  And 
if  hope  is  restored,  no  matter  what  our  hope  may  be, 
that  is  paradise  regained.  There  must  have  been  a 
million  forms  of  hope,  a  million  forms  of  paradise, 

239 


THE    INEVITABLE 


since  the  world  began.  I  shall  therefore  go  back  to 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  give  them  a  hope  that  comes  with 
a  sunset — light  so  glorious  that  nothing  can  shake 
it,  nothing  dim  its  shimmer." 

She  crept  close  to  his  side  and  nestled  against  his 
breast,  like  a  child.  "  Yes,  dear,"  she  said.  "  The 
sadness  of  '  Paradise  Lost'  was  so  heart-breaking,  the 
little  ray  of  hope  at  the  end  was  so  faint.  And  what 
will  the  great  hope  be — Christ's,  dear,  please, — I 
should  never  want  to  give  you  up." 

"  It  was  such  a  universal,  human  hope  that  Christ 
made  plain,"  he  told  her.  "  Throughout  the  centuries 
the  Adams  and  the  Eves  have  hoped  that  the  ties  of 
love  that  form  in  life  will  not  be  severed.  They  want 
each  other  again,  forever.  So,  very  often,  that  would 
be  paradise  enough." 

"  It  would  for  me, — to  have  you,  dear,  forever 
and  ever,"  she  said.  "  But  where  would  we  be  ?  What 
would  paradise  be  like?  When  your  music  restores  it, 
what  shall  I  see?" 

"  What  most  you  wish  to  see, — like  every  one  else, 
dearest  heart." 

"  Then  this  will  be  it :  Burnham  Beeches  and  you, 
or  that  other  wood,  away  out  there  in  Missouri,  where 
you  played  on  the  tree,  for  a  'cello.  Make  it  a  forest 
for  us,  dear,  please." 

"  Yes,  like  this,"  he  agreed,  "  with  patient  old  trees, 
240 


THEIR    DAY    OF    SUMMER 

with  a  beauty  that  goes  all  through,  and  a  warm  breeze 
making  the  leaves  softly  sigh  of  content;  and  bird- 
notes  for  music,  coming  from  we  know  not  where. 
I  like  the  sunlight,  streaming  down  on  grass  and  leaves. 
I  like  to  know  the  open  fields  are  out  beyond,  and  the 
river  winding  so,  to  prolong  its  caress  to  the  meadows. 
It  is  all  such  peace  here  and  drowsy  warmth.  And 
trees  are  such  brothers.  There  are  so  many  thousands 
of  Gardens  of  Eden  all  over  the  world,  that  why 
should  man  contend  as  to  which  was  the  one?  I 
could  never  describe  one-half  of  the  beauties  in  any 
one,  with  all  the  music  awakened  in  my  heart." 

"  But  you  will  think  of  Burnham  Beeches,  dearest  ?" 
she  coaxed.  "  I  want  you  to  say,  yes,  you  will,  be- 
cause I  am  here  at  your  side.  You  haven't  said  any- 
thing about  me  for  the  longest  time." 

"  It  was  all  about  you,  rogue.  You  are  my  paradise 
regained.  You  are  forests  of  sweet  warm  breaths, 
and  sunlight,  and  song,  and  beauty." 

He  knelt  at  her  feet  again  and  kissed  her  hands  and 
laughed  at  her  boyishly. 

She  patted  his  face  and,  holding  her  hands  on  his 
firm  bronze  cheeks,  kissed  him  on  his  forehead  and  his 
lips.  It  was  always  in  her  natural,  impulsive  way  that 
she  kissed  him. 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  she  murmured  in  her  joy,  "  it  is  so 
sweet  to  know  that  you  love  me,  and  let  me  love  you, 
16  241 


THE    INEVITABLE 


dear.  I  don't  want  you  to  write  your  music  yet.  I 
want  you  to  say  it  all  to  me.  I  want  all  those  beautiful, 
wonderful  thoughts  in  your  head  and  heart  just  made 
into  love.  I  couldn't  share  you  with  any  one,  just 
yet." 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "  I  would  rather  you  would 
write  it  all — in  kisses.  Only  I  fear  that  if  ever  you 
find  out  how  much  I  really  love  you,  precious,  you 
will  be  alarmed." 

"  Never.  I  love  you  twice  as  much  as  you  do  me," 
she  told  him,  again  flushing  red  as  a  rose. 

"  Let's  have  no  tests,"  he  suggested,  "  except  in 
protestations." 

"  And "    She  looked  at  him  roguishly. 

"  Of  course."     And  he  kissed  her  thrice. 


242 


Ill 

SUNSHINE 


I 

AN   AFTERMATH 


A  MONTH  before  Comanche's  recital  at  the  Royal 
Albert  Hall,  New  York  City  underwent  one  of  its 
freaks  of  weather.  A  heat  wave  of  summer  intensity 
swept  from  Washington  to  Boston  through  suddenly 
opened  windows. 

It  was  sultry  in  the  evening  of  one  of  those  April 
days,  even  at  the  top  of  the  lofty  building  that  faced 
Central  Park,  where  the  "  mountain  air"  wafted  heav- 
ily through  the  stuffily  furnished  apartments. 

Sitting  in  front  of  the  window,  where  the  curtain 
lazily  swelled  and  flattened,  were  two  women,  both 
pretty.  They  were  holding  hands,  as  they  faced  a 
man  who  sat  near  by  in  a  chair,  with  his  finger-ends 
held  precisely  together. 

Another  man,  much  the  elder  of  the  first,  came  walk- 
ing into  the  room  with  his  slippers  slovenly  dragging 
along  the  floor  and  his  head  tilted  backward  pecu- 
liarly. 

For  the  moment  no  one  was  speaking.  An  odor 
of  stale  cigar  smoke,  wine,  and  flowers  hung  on  the 
drapery  of  the  place,  suggesting  the  recent  departure 
of  the  guests  who  had  come  to  the  evening  reception. 

The  two  women  seated  together  were  obviously 
245 


THE    INEVITABLE 


mother  and  daughter,  and  yet  their  features  differed 
widely.  The  mother  was  petite,  dainty,  beautiful  after 
the  manner  of  Dresden  china.  Her  hair  had  become 
white  at  the  age  of  thirty,  entirely  without  the  influ- 
ence of  cares  or  griefs,  so  that  it  gave  no  impression 
or  suggestion  of  age.  Her  color  was  soft  and  radiant. 
Her  cheeks  were  round  and  smooth.  She  was  dressed 
in  gray  satin,  with  a  violet  vest.  About  her  neck, 
where  the  gown  was  cut  somewhat  low,  a  double  string 
of  pearls  seemed  to  indent  their  own  dimples  in  which 
to  rest.  On  her  feet  she  wore  the  daintiest  of  violet 
satin  slippers,  which  swung  prettily  in  view,  with 
violet  silk  stockings  revealed  in  pleasant  curves. 

For  a  moment  it  might  have  seemed  that  the  eyes 
of  the  two  women  were  equally  dark,  but  those  of  the 
daughter  were  brown,  while  the  mother's  were  pur- 
ple. The  hair  of  the  younger  woman  was  wavy  golden- 
brown.  There  was  a  wide-open,  innocent  look  in  her 
eyes,  above  which  her  brows  were  heavily  pencilled  in 
jet  black.  A  serious  little  pucker  came  frequently 
between  her  eyes,  but  she  always  laughed  it  away, 
in  a  girlish  manner.  Her  upper  lip  was  particularly 
short.  Altogether  her  face  was  striking;  it  was  arch 
and  yet  it  conveyed  a  sense  of  childishness  and  sim- 
plicity. 

The  man  who  had  come  into  the  room,  slurring  his 
feet  along  the  floor,  was  a  small,  gray  being  with  a 

246 


AN   AFTERMATH 


naked  head,  hammocks  of  flesh  on  his  face,  and  eyes 
with  lids  so  heavily  drooping  that  he  tilted  his  head 
backward  to  look  at  any  one  he  chanced  to  be  ad- 
dressing. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  growlingly,  as  he  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down,  "  I'm  glad  it's  over.  That's  what  the 
fellow  said  when  the  wagon  ran  over  his  legs.  '  I'm 
glad  it's  over,'  the  fellow  said,  when  it  was  over.  And 
that's  what  I  am;  I'm  glad  it's  over." 

His  hearers  laughed,  the  mother  with  particular 
mellowness  and  gayety.  "  Oh,  Jimsie,  you  are  so  comi- 
cal," she  said,  playfully  striking  towards  him  with  a 
fan.  "  Robert,  you  know  Mr.  Chichester  always  has 
to  have  his  joke." 

The  man  addressed  as  Robert  smiled  and  nodded. 
He  was  as  faultless  as  a  billiard  ball,  with  his  smoothed 
hair,  his  oval  cheeks,  and  his  polish,  which  was  shown 
even  in  the  manner  of  his  smile. 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Chichester  readily  agreed ;  "  you  see 
the  man  was  thrown  down  and  run  over  by  a  wagon. 
So  when  it  was  over  he  said,  '  I'm  glad  it's  over.' 
And  that's  what  I  said, — I'm  glad " 

Everybody  laughed  and  interrupted  the  finish. 

"  I  guess  we're  all  glad  it's  over,"  said  the  daughter, 
looking  inquiringly  at  Robert.  "  I'm  sure  I  am,  for 
one." 

"  Exactly,"  put  in  Mr.  Chichester,  cheerfully,  "  that's 
247 


THE    INEVITABLE 


just  the  point, — glad  it's  over.  The  man  had  just  been 
thrown  down,  and  the  wheels  passed  over  his  legs. 
Then  he  said,  'I'm  glad  it's  over.'  Good,  isn't  it? 
So  that's  why  I  said  I'm  glad  it's  over,  meaning  this 
beastly  reception.  That's  the  point.  I'm  glad  it's 
over." 

Yet  again  every  one  appreciated  the  humor.  Mr. 
Chichester  had  long  retained  possession  of  considerable 
money. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  older  woman ;  "  but  I  do  love 
receptions.  How  did  I  look?" 

"  Your  appearance  always  commands  admiration, 
Mrs.  Chichester,"  observed  Robert,  who  was  other- 
wise Mr.  Dunn. 

"  Yes,  mamma,  dear,  you  are  always  lovely,"  said 
the  daughter,  wistfully.  "  You  always  outshine  the 
callers,  the  bride,  and  everybody  else." 

"  Dear  me,  hear  the  honest  child !"  said  Mrs.  Chi- 
chested,  laughing  as  a  kitten  might  be  expected  to 
laugh.  "  But  I  do  suppose  it  is  really  my  duty  to  look 
my  best." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  a  beautiful  woman,"  her  husband 
informed  her.  "  You're  a  charming  woman,  but  I'm 
glad  it's " 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Chichester  smilingly 
interrupted.  "  The  evening  was  certainly  a  great  suc- 
cess. Mr.  Rudder  and  Harry  Fenn  both  paid  me  such 

248 


AN    AFTERMATH 


delightful  compliments.  Mr.  Rudder  has  such  a  soul 
for  the  beautiful,  and  Mr.  Fenn  is  always  such  a  dear, 
reliable  creature,  with  such  splendid  taste." 

"  Eh,  Sunshine,"  said  Mr.  Chichester,  looking  at 
the  daughter  with  his  head  tilted  backward,  "  do  you 
really  feel — eh — married?  Do  you  feel  like  Mrs. 
Dunn,  my  dear?  You've  gone  and  Dunn  it,  you 
know." 

Everybody  enjoyed  this  immensely. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  bride ;  "  I  have  been  called 
Mrs.  Dunn  so  much  since  Christmas,  wherever  we've 
been,  that  I  begin  to  wonder  if  I  ever  was  just  plain 
Sunshine  Chichester." 

"  But  you've  gone  and  Dunn  it.  Your  name  is  Dunn. 
You've  gone  and  Dunn  it,"  Chichester  explained. 

His  auditors  were  loyal. 

"  Oh,  Jimsie,"  ripplingly  protested  his  wife,  "  really 
you  will  be  the  death  of  me,  you  comical  thing.  If 
laughing  weren't  becoming  I  should  never  have  dared 
to  marry  him,  never."  And  she  arched  her  brows  in 
playful  good  humor. 

"You  see,  she  married  Mr.  Dunn,"  continued  the 
man  of  jokes.  "  She  went  to  do  it.  She  took  his 
name.  She's  gone  and  Dunn  it." 

Mr.  Dunn  felt  obliged  to  stroke  his  jaws,  so  stiff 
were  they  growing  with  merriment.  After  this  he 
smoothed  his  Vandyke  beard  to  its  customary  point. 

249 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chichester  to  her  daugh- 
ter, "  I  hope  you  will  always  be  as  happy  as  your 
mamma.  Everybody  has  always  made  me  happy." 

Had  the  lady  confessed  she  had  always  been  flattered 
and  spoiled,  and  that  doubtless  she  should  perish  with- 
out adulation  from  every  possible  source,  the  statement 
would  have  been  no  more  than  merely  adequate. 

"  You  are  very  thoughtful,  dear  little  mother,"  Sun- 
shine answered.  "  How  many  people  do  you  think 
were  here?" 

"  We  sent  out  cards  to  one  hundred  and  fifty,  but 
of  course  only  half  the  invited  people  ever  come,"  re- 
plied the  mother.  "  I  think  it  was  selfish  of  Holbrook 
Mann  not  to  come.  He  always  says  such  original 
things  about  the  way  I  look — and  so  sincere  and 
honest." 

"  I  liked  that  Mrs.  Gudrun,  who  came  with  Mrs. 
Trapp,"  said  Sunshine.  "  Mrs.  Gudrun's  name  re- 
minded me  of  a  man  we  saw  at  New  Orleans  last  week. 
You  remember,  Robert?" 

Mr.  Dunn  replied  that  he  did. 

Chichester  shuffled  out  of  the  room.  He  was  bored ; 
and  he  also  remembered  a  certain  unconsumed  bottle 
of  champagne,  still  on  ice. 

"  A  very  tall  man  he  must  have  been,  but  his  back 
was  bent ;  and  his  hair  was  gray  and  curly,"  the  bride 
continued.  "  It  was  really  quite  odd, — what  hap- 

250 


AN    AFTERMATH 


pened.  Our  wheel  came  off, — I  mean  the  wheel  of 
our  carriage, — and  I  got  quite  a  fright.  But  this  man 
ran  right  up.  He  must  have  been  wonderfully  strong, 
for  he  lifted  the  axle— do  they  call  it  the  axle,  Rob- 
ert?" 

Robert  nodded. 

"  He  lifted  it  right  up  and  put  on  the  wheel — all 
alone,  before  we  could  even  get  out;  didn't  he,  Rob- 
ert? And  then  he  found  the  screw  thing " 

"  The  nut,"  Mr.  Dunn  corrected. 

"  The  nut,  and  mended  the  carriage  instantly." 

"  Rather  remarkable  performance,"  said  Sunshine's 
husband.  "  Quite  remarkable,  for  a  negro." 

"  I  hate  negroes,"  Mrs.  Chichester  remarked,  with 
emphasis.  "  My  dear  child,  why  do  you  speak  of  any- 
thing so  indelicate?" 

"  But  he  wasn't  a  negro,"  Sunshine  protested.  "  He 
was  nearly  white,  and  his  hair  just  a  little  curly.  And 
Robert  gave  him  a  quarter.  The  man  said  his  name 
was  Gordon, — George  Gordon, — and  really  I  liked  him 
right  away.  Wasn't  it  funny?" 

"  I  don't  see  anything  funny  at  all,"  Mrs.  Chichester 
answered,  fanning  herself  with  vigor.  "  Negroes  are 
low.  I  never  like  to  think  of  negroes.  I  don't  wish 
to  know  there  are  any  negroes.  I  wish  they  would  all 
die,  or  go  away.  I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't." 
She  arose  somewhat  abruptly.  "  The  sudden  heat 

251 


THE    INEVITABLE 


has  made  me  sleepy,"  she  added.  "  My  dear  Sunshine 
and  Robert,  I  must  say  good-night." 

Thus  abruptly  to  have  learned  from  her  daughter 
that  George  Gordon  still  survived  might  in  all  reason 
have  agitated  Mrs.  Chichester  far  more  deeply  than  it 
did.  She  had  once  been  Gordon's  wife,  and  she  was 
the  mother  of  Roger,  his  son.  She  had  hoped,  more- 
over, that  both  were  dead. 

But  angered  as  she  was  by  Sunshine's  story,  and 
vexed  to  know  that  Gordon  should  have  survived,  she 
soon  beheld  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirrors  on  her 
walls  and  was  presently  practising  agreeable  expres- 
sions, with  all  the  art  with  which  she  had  been  so 
generously  endowed. 


252 


II 

A   FRIEND   IN   NEED 


ABOMINABLE  and,  indeed,  disgusting  as  she  con- 
ceived it  to  be  for  Roger  Gordon's  father  not  only  to 
be  in  existence,  but  actually  once  more  in  America, 
Mrs.  Chichester's  mind  would  soon  have  been  oc- 
cupied with  other  concerns  had  her  daughter's  tale 
been  all  that  circumstance  intended  to  furnish  on  the 
subject  thus  dragged  from  the  past.  But  ordinarily 
circumstance  arranges  her  fateful  affairs  in  clusters, 
and  thus  her  many  little  incidents  happen  one  behind 
another. 

Several  days  had  elapsed,  and  Sunshine's  story  of 
her  drive  in  New  Orleans  was  duly  blurred  in  her 
mother's  mind,  when  an  item  appeared  in  a  local  New 
York  paper  that  mustered  a  score  of  new  and  startling 
thoughts  for  that  pretty  little  lady's  diversion. 

Bertha  Chichester's  habits  of  reading  were  peculiar 
to  herself.  She  read  the  "personal"  advertisements 
and  the  "  Doings  of  Society"  almost  exclusively,  and 
she  read  in  bed,  after  routing  out  her  husband  to  exer- 
cise a  brindle  dog  as  gruesome  of  countenance  as  a 
Chinese  idol.  The  "  personals"  she  kept  as  plums  of 
reading,  just  as  when  a  child  she  had  plucked  the 
raisins  from  her  pudding,  to  eat  with  avidity,  the 

253 


THE    INEVITABLE 


while  she  bestowed  the  dough  upon  her  mother.  Thus 
it  came  that  she  fingered  out  and  devoured  the  follow- 
ing: 

"  GORDON.  If  George  Gordon,  the  son  of  Donald 
Gordon,  deceased,  who  is  a  nephew  of  David  Gordon, 
also  recently  deceased,  or  the  heirs  at  law  of  said 
George  Gordon,  will  communicate  with  the  under- 
signed, he  or  they  will  learn  of  something  of  great 

advantage. 

"  BILLINGS  &  STRONG, 

"Attorneys. 
"NUCLEUS  BUILDING,  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK  CITY." 

Mrs.  Chichester  stared  at  this  item  with  an  in- 
terest which  soon  became  intense.  She  read  it  three 
or  four  times  over.  It  amazed  her,  baffled  her,  awoke 
strange  wonderings  and  deep-laid  cupidities  in  her 
nature. 

George  Gordon!  That  man  again! — and  in  such  a 
connection  as  this!  How  well  she  remembered  him, 
speaking  the  names  of  his  father  and  uncle! 

What  could  it  mean?  Was  it  property,  left  by  his 
uncle,  thus  advertised  as  recently  deceased?  And  if 
so,  was  it  nothing,  now,  to  her?  She  had  once  had 
all  that  George  Gordon  could  give.  It  seemed  as  if 
she  must  still  have  claims  to  anything  he  owned. 

But  she  puzzled  her  brain  over  "  heirs  at  law."  The 
254 


A   FRIEND    IN    NEED 


phrase  was  somewhat,  but  not  entirely,  beyond  her 
ken.  Dimly  she  wondered  if  Sunshine  Dunn  could 
not  be  construed  as  an  heir  at  law.  She  was  presently 
demanding  that  this  should  be  so.  What  right  had  a 
man  who  was  working  with  the  negroes  at  New  Or- 
leans to  inherit  a  property — if  property  were  meant 
by  this  notice  staring  upward  from  the  type — if  he 
stood  in  the  light  of  her  child  and  herself? 

Something  half  sophistry,  half  cunning,  was  making 
its  argument  swiftly  in  her  thoughts.  It  might  mean 
so  very  much, — this  word  to  the  Gordons.  A  score 
of  possibilities  arose  before  her  vision.  But  all  went 
toppling  at  the  onslaught  of  her  partial  ignorance.  To 
her  that  "  heirs  at  law"  was  a  sinister  thing  in  which 
importance  indubitably  lurked. 

Inflamed,  as  she  swiftly  became,  through  the  agen- 
cies of  pique  and  curiosity,  Mrs.  Chichester  lost  little 
time  in  determining  that  she  must  immediately  pay 
a  visit  at  the  offices  of  Billings  &  Strong.  Then  she 
thought  of  her  husband,  and  burned  with  impatience 
to  have  him  return.  She  knew  he  could  readily  inform 
her  as  to  the  meaning  of  "  heirs  at  law,"  howsoever 
much  or  little  the  words  might  imply. 

She  arose  in  haste,  and  cutting  the  notice  from  the 
column  of  print,  concealed  it  at  once  in  her  purse.  Her 
toilet  she  then  concluded  with  such  alacrity  that  when 
Chichester  presently  appeared,  with  the  gruesome  dog, 

255 


THE    INEVITABLE 


she  was  seated  already  at  the  table  for  breakfast.  She 
glanced  at  the  man,  to  read  his  mood,  as  he  slurred  his 
way  across  the  floor  to  his  chair. 

"  Well,  Jimsie,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  pout,  "  well  ?" 

"Well,"  said  he,  "what?" 

"  You  haven't  noticed  how  I  look,  or  said  a  single 
word." 

"  You  are  very  pretty — what  have  we  got  for  break- 
fast ?"  said  he,  looking  hungrily  about.  "  Where's 
my  toast?" 

"  It's  here,  you  cross  old  thing,  but  you  shan't  have 
a  bite  till  you've  said  I'm  nice." 

Like  the  dog,  who  went  through  certain  fulsome 
tricks  at  the  same  command,  Mr.  Chichester  ran 
around  the  table.  "  You're  nice,  you're  very  beautiful, 
adorable,  and  nice,"  said  he.  "  Gim-me !"  and  he 
snatched  the  plate  of  toast.  "  You're  damned  nice," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  trotted  back  to  his  chair. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  mean  a  word  you  say,"  said 
Bertha,  who  had  missed  his  final  observation. 

"  Well,  I  do.  I  mean  it  all,"  said  he,  having  in  mind 
the  confidence  imparted  to  himself.  "  I  mean  even 
more,  my  dear.  Gim-me  something  to  drink.  I'll  get 
no  rest  from  the  damned  dyspepsia  till  I  eat." 

"Oh,  has  he  got  a  little  dyspepsia?"  she  inquired. 
"  I've  always  told  you,  Jimsie,  to  leave  ice-cream  for 
me.  It  always  improves  my  color,  and  it  always  ruins 

256 


A   FRIEND    IN    NEED 


yours.  But  there !  you're  such  a  darling,  with  all  your 
faults." 

Her  husband  growled  at  this,  from  his  toast,  down 
in  his  plate. 

"  Jimsie,  what  is  an  heir  at  law  ?"  she  inquired. 
"  You  are  my  walking — oh,  one  of  those  books  that 
tell  you  everything, — not  a  dictionary, — you  know 
what  I  mean " 

"  Encyclopaedia,"  growled  Mr.  Chichester,  less  pug- 
naciously. 

"  Yes,  that's  it.    And  what  is  an  heir  at  law  ?" 

"  Sometimes  it's  a  brat,  sometimes  a  roue,  sometimes 
a  woman.  Anybody  that  gets  a  dead  man's  shoes." 

"  Oh !    But  how  does  a  woman  ever  get  to  be  one  ?" 

"  By  blarney,  ordinarily." 

"  No ;  now  you  tell  me  all  about  it.  You  are  always 
so  clever,  Jimsie." 

"  Nothing  to  tell,"  said  he,  indifferent  to  all  his 
erudition.  "  If  a  man  dies,  his  sons  or  his  daughters 
— if  he  has  'em — would  be  his  heirs.  If  he  hasn't,  his 
wife  might  come  in.  If  he  hasn't  any  wife  and  kids, 
then  his  brother  or  sister,  or  their  brats,  or  his  own 
mother  and  father,  according  to  the  law.  'Most  any- 
body's willing." 

He  tilted  back  his  head  to  look  at  his  wife,  and  de- 
cided not  to  crack  a  joke  which  occurred  to  his  mind. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Chichester  rarely  wasted  his  jokes  on  an 
i?  257 


THE    INEVITABLE 


audience  of  one,  particularly  if  the  one  were  his  part- 
ner for  life.  He  preferred  to  scatter  his  wit  into  flocks 
of  victims. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  said  Bertha,  "  it's  such  a  lot  to  remem- 
ber. And  you  mean,  Jimsie,  if  a  man  died  and  left 
his  property  all  to  his  brother's  son, — his  nephew, — 
just  for  instance,  and  the  son  was  dead,  then  the  son's 
wife  would  be  the  heir  at  law?" 

"  Of  course.  Where's  the  claret?"  He  reached  the 
bottle  and  pouring  a  glass  full  swallowed  it  down  at 
a  gulp. 

Bertha  had  sipped  hot  chocolate  and  eaten  a  plate 
of  macaroons.  She  was  one  of  those  enigmas  with 
whose  liver,  complexion,  and  conscience  nothing  ever 
disagrees. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  ask  such  a  lot  of  silly  ques- 
tions," she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  By  the  way,  my  dear, 
I  wish  you'd  go  over  to  Sunshine's  a  moment  and  tell 
them  not  to  call  with  the  carriage  till  three  o'clock. 
I  find  I've  got  to  go  shopping.  How  do  I  look  in 
this  green  and  white.  Good-by,  dear,  you  may  kiss 
me  now.  I  hate  to  be  all  pawed  and  disarranged  when 
I've  got  my  hat  on.  Good-by." 

She  put  on  a  hat  and  veil  and,  taking  a  parasol, 
tripped  out  and  along  the  Park  to  the  Fifth  Avenue 
entrance,  where  she  took  a  hansom  for  lower  Broad- 
way. 

258 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED 


There  were  three  large  rooms  in  the  Nucleus  Build- 
ing devoted  to  the  needs  and  uses  of  Billings  &  Strong, 
all  of  them  breathing  of  law-calf  bindings.  It  chanced 
that  Messrs.  Billings  &  Strong  were  both  at  court 
when  Bertha  made  her  appearance,  but  a  middle-aged, 
red-haired  clerk  arose  from  the  chair  intended  for 
clients,  to  give  her  greeting. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Mrs.  Chichester,  advancing 
with  outstretched  hand.  "  I'm  so  glad  to  find  you  in. 
Is  this  Mr.  Billings  or  Mr.  Strong?" 

"Ahem — er — permit  me  to  offer  you  a  chair.  Er — 
my  name  is  Billings,"  and  he  deftly  pushed  from  sight 
a  blotter  in  which  he  had  been  diligently  writing 
"  Charles  Billings  Portbridge,"  with  many  flourishes. 

He  was,  in  fact,  the  son  of  a  man  who  was  an  ad- 
mirer of  the  senior  member  of  the  firm.  This  was  not 
the  first  occasion  on  which  the  clerk  had  found  it  ex- 
pedient to  merge  his  personality  in  that  of  his  absent 
employer. 

"  Oh,  how  charming !"  said  Bertha.  "  I  expected 
to  see — shall  I  really  confess? — a  cross  old  man  who 
couldn't  see  anything  in  the  world  but  law." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  clerk,  "  I  assure  you  there  never 
— and  this  I  say  without  fear  of  successful  contra- 
diction— there  never  was  a  legal  gentleman  who  would 
not  fail  to  lose  all  sight  of  law  and  everything  of  earth 
on  beholding  yourself." 

259 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  you  eloquent  gentlemen !  you  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  say  exactly  what  you  think." 

Mr.  Portbridge,  who  looked  on  her  beauty  out  of 
two  little  button-hole  eyes,  the  orbs  of  which  gave  the 
impresion  of  swimming  in  the  fat  of  his  overhanging 
lids  and  upward-rolling  cheeks,  appeared  to  have 
spoken  precisely  what  was  in  his  mind.  "  We  are — 
ahem — accustomed,  of  course,  to  giving  sound,  judi- 
cial opinions,"  he  agreed. 

"  Of  course  you  are.  And  that's  just  exactly  what 
I  came  to  get.  I  never  know  a  thing  about  my 
rights." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  clerk,  rising  and  bowing  pro- 
foundly, with  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  "  I  honor  myself 
by  declaring  to  all  in  the  sound  of  my  voice  that  your 
rights  have  found  a  place  in  my  heart,  from  which 
they  shall  never  be  removed  while  I  live." 

"  Oh,  what  dear,  kind  men  you  lawyers  are,"  said 
Bertha,  shaking  her  finger  at  him  coyly.  "  And  maybe 
it  wasn't  worth  coming  for  at  all.  It's  about  your 
advertisement  in  the  paper."  She  opened  her  purse 
to  take  out  the  clipping.  "  There, — Gordon,  something 
of  advantage  to  the  Gordons.  I  was  the  widow,  you 
know,  of  Mr.  David  Gordon's  nephew." 

"Phew!"  said  the  clerk  to  himself.  "Ah,"  he 
added,  aloud,  "how  very  fortunate — yes,  very  fortu- 
nate indeed." 

260 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED 


"  And  I'd  like  to  know  what  the  great  advantage 
is.  I  suppose  it  could  hardly  be  property." 

"  Er — Gordon — yes,  I  remember  the  name — we  have 
so  very  many  clients,  you  will  understand— er — Mrs. 
_Mrs. " 

"  My  name  is  Chichester  now." 

"  Mrs.  Chichester — ah !  But  I  think  I  may  say,  with- 
out fear  of  successful  contradiction,  there  is  property  ; 
in  fact,  to  wit,  a  large  amount.  Mr.  David  Gordon, 
deceased,  left  one  hundred  thousand  dollars — to  his 
nephew — er — Joseph " 

"  To  George  Gordon !    Oh,  how  very  kind !" 

"  To  George  Gordon.  I  think  I  understood  you  to 
say  you  were  the  widow  of  this  nephew,  George  Gor- 
don ?  Are  you  as  positive  of  this  as  anything  you  have 
heretofore  sworn  to  ? — excuse  me  if  I  seem  to  proceed 
according  to  legal  habit." 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes.  I've  brought  my  wedding  certifi- 
cate along." 

He  looked  at  it  gloatingly.  What  he  saw  was  be- 
tween the  paper  and  his  eyes,  however, — a  plan  which 
was  weaving,  but  not  entirely  formed,  in  his  mind. 
The  apparent  perusal  gave  him  a  moment  in  which  to 
think. 

"  Very  good — exceptional  evidence,  priina  facie  evi- 
dence, my  dear  madam.  Er — Mr.  Gordon — pardon 
the  question — did  he  die  without  issue?" 

261 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Bertha,  laughingly,  "  he  died  with- 
out any — what  did  you  say?" 

"  Issue — children.  Did  he  die  without  leaving  chil- 
dren?" 

"  Oh,  how  stupid  of  me !  issue — of  course.  No,  oh, 
no;  my  daughter,  my  daughter  Sunshine — married  at 
Christmas.  We  had  her  reception  yesterday.  Too  bad 
I  couldn't  have  known  you,  Mr.  Billings,  in  time  to 
send  you  a  card.  She  is  Mr.  Gordon's  daughter." 

"  Ah !  And  you  had  no  other  children  by  Mr.  Gor- 
don?" 

"  No,  oh,  no.    Dear  me,  and  am  I  really  heir  at  law  ?" 

"  You  and  your  daughter,  my  dear  madam,  beyond 
the  question  of  a  doubt." 

"  Well,  then,  can't  we  get  it  all  settled  right  away  ? 
I  should  like  to  have  the  advertisement  discontinued 
at  once.  It's  a  matter — it's  a  family  matter." 

"  Huh.  But  the  law  prescribes  certain  regulations, 
and  another  salient  feature  is  this,  that  the  contracts 
to  print  this  notice  have  been  made  with  various  publi- 
cations, and  could  not  be  readily  revoked. 

"  Oh,  that  is  wretched !"  pouted  Bertha.  "  Really, 
Mr.  Billings,  I  think  that  is  too  bad.  Couldn't  you 
stop  them?  It  doesn't  come  out  except  in  New  York 
papers,  does  it — not  as  far  away  as — as  New  Orleans 
— just  for  instance?" 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  give  you  any  definite  infor- 
262 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED 


•  mation  at  this  particular  moment,  but  I  should  venture 
to  say  it  appears  in  several  cities;  in  fact,  I  do  so 
allege,  without  fear  of  successful  contradiction." 

"  How  very  provoking !  Couldn't  we — you  know — 
couldn't  we  stop  them?  You  lawyers  are  always  so 
clever.  Couldn't  you  do  that — just  a  little  thing  like 
that— for  me?" 

"  Madam,"  Mr.  Portbridge  replied,  rising  again, 
with  his  hand  on  his  breast,  "  there  is  nothing — and 
this  I  proclaim  to  all  in  the  sound  of  my  voice — there 
is  nothing  I  would  hesitate  to  attempt  for  so  charming 
and — excuse  me — so  beautiful  a  woman  as  your- 
self  " 

"  Oh,  you  eloquent,  naughty  lawyers " 

"  But,  unfortunately,  these  things  require  manipu- 
lation, and — er — capital.  If," — and  here  he  lowered 
his  voice — "  if,  my  dear — er — I  could  be  assured  of 
a  quiet  continuation  of  our  friendship,  I  would — er — 
be  willing  to  undertake  what  you  desire  for  a  modest 
retainer." 

"  You  mean — oh,  you  men  confuse  me  so — you  will 
do  it  for  friendship — and  what  else?" 

"  Just  a  nominal  fee.  That  is  to  say,  to  wit,  if  you 
will  bring  me, — let  us  put  it  ridiculously  low, — say, 
five  thousand  dollars — to  my  private  office — not  here, 
you  know,  I  will  undertake  this  serious  bit  of  work, — 
provided  our  friendly  relations — er — increase ;  for,  be- 

263 


THE    INEVITABLE 


lieve  me,  your  personal  charms,  my  dear — er — are  of 
greater  consideration  than  all  the  rest." 

"  Oh,  you  artful  thing,"  Mrs.  Chichester  answered, 
shaking  her  parasol  towards  him ;  "  but  five  thousand 
dollars — isn't  that  a  great  deal  of  money?  Couldn't 
you  do  it  for  less — just  for  me?" 

The  clerk  came  suddenly  around  the  table,  kneeled 
at  her  feet,  and  took  her  hand,  to  kiss  it  madly.  "  For 
you,"  he  said,  ardently,  "  I  will  do  it  for  a  wretched 
three  thousand  dollars  and  affectionate " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  jumping  quickly  away  and  laugh- 
ing nervously,  "  you  artful,  delightful  lawyers !  Really 
I  must  be  going,  I  really  must.  I  had  nearly  forgotten 
a  pressing  engagement.  Then  you  will  fix  it  up  all 
right  for  the  money " 

"  And  friendship,  my  charming  client."  He  took 
her  hand  in  both  his  own  and  pressed  it  kindly.  "  It 
isn't  quite — er — regular — you  understand.  I  assume 
a  risk  for  your — er — lovely  sake,  my  dear,  but  for  the 
paltry  three  thousand  I  will  do  it,  if  you  will  bring  it 
to-morrow  to  my  private  office, — and  here  is  the  ad- 
dress." He  wrote  on  a  card  and  gave  it  to  her,  taking 
her  hand  once  more  to  present  it. 

"  I'll  try— I'll  try,"  said  Mrs.  Chichester,  frightened 
a  trifle;  "but  now  I  must  go.  Good-by."  And  she 
opened  the  door  and  slipped  from  the  room. 

The  clerk  started  to  follow,  but  checked  himself 
264 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED 


abruptly  and  contented  himself  with  thumping  his 
thorax  and  making  a  series  of  faces,  each  fairly  repre- 
sentative of  the  various  breeds  of  pigs.  Then  he  went 
to  the  inner  office,  approached  the  safe  and  halted. 
From  a  pocket  he  drew  forth  a  key  which  proved  to 
be  quite  the  thing  wherewith  to  unlock  an  inside  com- 
partment of  the  vault.  From  this  he  extracted  and 
rapidly  perused  a  bundle  of  papers,  marked  "  Estate 
of  David  Gordon." 

"  Hum,"  he  said,  "  just  as  I  thought.  Memory  not 
so  bad." 

He  read  aloud :  "  '  — and  I  want  you  to  know,  Uncle 
David,  that  my  wife  has  had  a  son,  and  I  am  ashamed 
to  say  she  has  deserted  him  entirely  and  she  has  sent 
him  away  and  will  not  see  him  at  all  any  more,  and  I 
take  the  precaution  of  letting  you  know  he  was  born  in 
case  there  should  ever  be  any  need  for  anybody  to 
know.' "  All  of  which  was  but  part  of  a  letter  signed 
in  San  Francisco,  years  before,  by  George  Gordon. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  the  clerk  in  a  moment,  whisking 
the  papers  again  in  the  safe,  "  yes — she  ought  to  be  a 
lawyer  herself.  I'll  stop  that  notice  in  the  Sun,  for 
I'll  bet  she  never  reads  anything  else;  but  the  whole 
thing  has  got  to  be  done  in  a  hurry.  Friendship  and 
three  thousand  dollars!  Hey?  Charlie, — ha,  ha, 
ho,  hoa, ! — you're  a  devil  of  a  fellow  and  a  damned 
slick  piece  of  goods." 

265 


Ill 

MR.  CHICHESTER   ACQUIESCES 

MRS.  CHICHESTER  shopped  to  the  extent  of  pur- 
chasing a  lace  handkerchief,  a  pair  of  gloves,  and 
some  silk  hosiery.  She  drove  up  Fifth  Avenue,  ar- 
riving at  Delmonico's  at  one.  There  she  partook  of 
refreshments  which  occupied  her  attention  till  2.30, 
when  she  drove  home  in  time  to  change  her  hat,  touch 
her  face  with  a  trifle  of  powder,  and  join  her  husband 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dunn  in  their  carriage. 

The  route  they  took  began  at  the  fashionable  en- 
trance to  the  park.  Mother  and  daughter  sat  back  in 
the  cushions,  Mrs.  Dunn  gazing  fondly  at  her  hus- 
band, Mrs.  Chichester  watching  alertly  for  glances 
of  admiration  from  the  passers-by. 

"  I  always  love  to  ride  in  a  brougham,"  Sunshine 
confessed,  girlishly ;  "  it  always  seems  to  sweep  along 
so  finely,  don't  you  know?" 

"  Eh — yes,"  said  Mr.  Chichester,  tilting  back  his 
head  to  look  at  them  all  from  beneath  his  heavy  lids, 
"  a  new  brougham — heh,  heh !  a  new  brougham  always 
sweeps  clean." 

The  company  laughed  gayly. 

"  Oh,  Jimsie !    Isn't  he  comical  ?"   said  his  wife. 

"  Very  good — very  clever,"  Mr.  Dunn  agreed. 
266 


MR.  CHICHESTER   ACQUIESCES 

"  You  see,"  the  joker  answered  them,  "  this  is  a 
brougham, — broom,  you  see, — and  Sunshine  says  it 
sweeps  along  finely,  so  I  say  a  new  brougham  sweeps 
clean." 

The  risibilities  of  all  were  again  excited. 

"  Well,  Jimsie,  that  is  a  delicious  bon  mot,"  said 
Bertha,  tapping  his  knee  with  her  parasol,  "  but  I 
love  a  brougham  because  it  gives  all  the  people  you 
meet  such  a  nice  chance  to  see  how  you  look." 

"You  always  look  very  pretty,  dear  little  mother," 
said  the  bride. 

"  Of  course,"  Mr.  Chichester  here  explained,  "  that's 
a  very  old  and  remarkable  proverb, — '  a  new  broom 
sweeps  clean,' — and  Sunshine  says  she  likes  a 
brougham  because  it  sweeps  along,  you  see.  That's 
what  makes  it  so  good,  so  I  said,  '  A  new  brougham 
sweeps  clean.'  " 

The  trio  proved  how  hard  it  is  to  kill  a  certain 
species  of  laughter.  Mr.  Dunn  somewhat  abruptly 
opened  a  monologue  on  buying  wheat  on  a  margin,  a 
topic  which  he  knew  transfixed  the  joker  infallibly.  A 
banker  himself,  Mr.  Dunn  presented  a  plausible  exterior 
always.  He  never  raised  his  voice,  never  spoke  with 
rapidity,  and  never,  it  would  have  seemed,  permitted 
his  blood  to  circulate  except  during  banking  hours. 
He  subscribed,  modestly,  to  anything  and  everything 
in  or  about  the  church,  rented  his  tenements  at  the 

267 


THE    INEVITABLE 


highest  prices,  and  dispossessed  delinquents  with  calm 
impartiality,  winter  and  summer  alike. 

So  thoroughly  was  Mr.  Chichester  side-tracked 
from  his  joke  that  he  failed  to  deliver  it  even  so  much 
as  one  more  time.  He  tilted  back  his  head  to  regard 
Mr.  Dunn  till  his  neck  was  stiff.  The  ladies  found 
it  necessary  to  amuse  each  other ;  or,  more  accurately, 
Sunshine  found  it  essential  to  admire  her  mother. 
Bertha  pouted  her  way  in  between  sophistries  on 
"  margin,"  and  her  husband  finally  managed  another 
repeating  joke  before  the  ride  was  finished. 

Mrs.  Chichester  hastened  the  end  of  the  drive  some- 
what by  allusions  to  fatigue  and  her  personal  appear- 
ance when  weary.  Thus  at  six  o'clock  she  found 
herself  alone  with  her  husband  at  the  table,  eating 
pink  shrimp  salad  and  green  ice-cream,  and  resting 
preparatory  to  spending  the  evening  at  the  opera. 

"  Jimsie,"  she  said,  "  you  darling,  delightful  old 
thing,  I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you  some  news.  You 
know  I  did  look  worried  to-day,  simply  because  I  had 
this  secret  on  my  mind." 

Mr.  Chichester  munched  at  hot  bacon  and  cold  mut- 
ton with  mushroom  sauce,  drinking  claret  every  mo- 
ment. "  The  beauty  of  bacon  is,  it  makes  you  thirsty," 
he  said  to  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  you  selfish  thing,"  she  pouted.  "  You  don't 
deserve  to  know  what  the  secret  is." 

268 


MR.  CHICHESTER    ACQUIESCES 

"  Oh,  it's  probably  lotion  for  my  hair,"  he  conjec- 
tured, and  gulped  at  his  wine. 

"No,  it  isn't;  and  just  to  make  you  ashamed  I'll 
tell  you  it's  money, — one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
And  I'll  just  give  it  all  right  straight  up,  and  I  won't 
move  a  step  to  get  it — so  now!" 

"  Huh,"  said  her  husband,  "  don't  be  a  fool.  How 
will  you  go  to  work  to  get  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars?" 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  worth  speaking  of  at  all.  I  don't  care 
for  the  money.  We  will  drop  the  subject.  What  shall 
I  wear  this  evening?  Do  you  like  me  in  the  pale 
yellow  and  white  crepe?" 

"  I  like  you  best  in  green — backs ;  they're  getting 
rare.  Now,  my  love,  I'm  listening — if  you've  really 
got  anything  to  say." 

"  No,  I  haven't,  Jimsie.  A  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars is  nothing  to  me.  I  only  thought  you  might  like 
to  have  it.  But  hair-lotion — I'll  talk  about  that,  if 
you  like." 

"  My  dear,  beautiful  wife,"  said  Chichester,  look- 
ing at  her  keenly  with  his  head  far  back,  "  I  like  to 
listen  to  anything  you  have  to  say.  Go  ahead,  now, 
huh?" 

"  No,  Jimsie,  it's  a  thing  that  needs  money,  and  I've 
got  to  do  it  secretly  or  not  at  all,  and  I  won't  try  to 
put  your  love  for  me  to  any  test." 

269 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  But,  sweetheart,  I  want  to  be  tested.  I  have  a 
right  to  want  to  be  tested.  I  love  you.  I  trust  you 
— hem — and  I  recognize  your  wisdom — I  do!  And 
a  hundred  thousand, — come  now,  I  was  cross  and 
wrong,  and  I  promise  to  listen,  huh?" 

"  Well,  you  would  have  to  trust  me  to  do  the  whole 
thing  alone,  and  help  me  all  you  can,  or  I  couldn't 
think  of  telling  or  trying." 

"  All  right,  I'll  promise  to  let  you  do  the  thing 
alone.  Dem  it!  Haven't  I  the  right  to  prove  I  trust 
my  adorable  little  wife?  Dem  it!  I  have!" 

"  Then — it's  stocks — Wall  Street — but  the  very  best 
kind.  And  I  want  three  thousand  dollars,  and  I'll 
get  one  hundred  thousand  back — and  it's  ever  so  much 
surer  than  your  old  margins ;  and  it  can't  fail — you'd 
know  it  couldn't  if  I  told  you;  and  there  isn't  any 
risk;  and  that's  all  I  can  tell  you,  except  a  man  told 
me  who  is  very  high  up,  and  the  hundred  thousand 
dollars  is  almost  right  in  my  hands — so  there!" 

"What  kind  of  stock?" 

"  Now,  there  you  go !  I  knew  you'd  just  begin  with 
questions.  I  told  you  I  couldn't  tell  any  more  till  we 
get  the  money,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't  said  a  word.  I'll 
drop  it  right  this  minute!" 

"  Dem  it !  wait  my  pet.  I  don't  want  to  ask  any 
questions.  I  trust  you  completely,  but " 

"  But !  Yes,  but !  Just  what  I  knew  was  coming. 
270 


MR.  CHICHESTER    ACQUIESCES 

Will  you  give  me  the  three  thousand  dollars,  or  shall 
I  drop  it  all  and  never,  never  try  again  to  get  it?" 

"  I'd  give  you  the  money,  my  dear,  if  I  had  it,  but 
I  haven't.  All  but  five  hundred  dollars  is  up  on  a 
margin  now,  and — hem — gone,  in  fact.  And  Dunn 
says  he  hasn't  a  cent  that  isn't  tied,  or  he'd  help  me 
out;  and  there  you  are,  huh?" 

"  And  you  mean  to  sit  there  and  tell  me,  James 
Higgins  Chichester,  that  you've  gone  and  gambled 
away  every  cent  we  had  but  five  hundred  dollars?" 

"  My  dear,  we  only  had  four  thousand  dollars  to 
gamble.  I  had  to  try  to  retrieve  our  lost  fortunes. 
We've  spent  it,  sweetheart.  But  I'll  give  you  all  that's 
left.  You  can  take  the  five  hundred  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  you  selfish  thing !  Then  you'll  have  to  give 
me  your  diamond  rings  and  studs.  And  all  my  dia- 
monds and  pearls  will  have  to  go.  We've  got  to 
have  that  hundred  thousand  dollars,  then  we'll  get  the 
things  all  back,  and  a  lot  of  new  ones  besides.  I'll 
take  that  five  hundred  dollars  right  away,  and  the 
ring  and  studs  the  minute  you  get  back  from  the 
opera  to-night.  Or  else — shall  I  drop  it  right  this 
minute,  hundred  thousand  and  all?" 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  dear,"  said  Chichester,  trotting 
around  the  table ;  "  no,  my  darling  beautiful.  But 
I  hope  you  won't  be  long  in  getting  the  money." 


271 


IV 

MRS.  CHICHESTER    ENLIGHTENED 

CHARLES  BILLINGS  PORTBRIDGE  waited  long  on  the 
following  day  in  his  "  private  office,"  but  not  in  vain. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Chichester 
finally  appeared,  and  the  clerk  was  impatient  to  re- 
turn to  his  post.  She  had  "  raised"  only  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars,  inclusive  of  Mr.  Chichester's  last 
half  a  thousand,  and  this,  after  much  persuasion  on 
the  part  of  herself  and  a  deal  of  gallantry  from  the 
clerk,  he  accepted. 

Mr.  Portbridge  impressed  upon  her  mind  the  neces- 
sity of  keeping  their  counsel  to  themselves,  and,  re- 
plying to  Bertha's  desire  to  have  the  fortune  placed 
in  her  hands  by  "  Monday  morning,"  assured  her  of 
the  gravity  of  everything  legal,  the  slow  and  careful 
movements  of  the  great  judicial  machine,  and  the 
risk  he  now  undertook  on  her  behalf,  concluding  by 
promising  anything  and  everything  by  the  end  of  five 
or  six  weeks. 

Having  reached  the  limit  of  her  cunning  in  form- 
ing and  executing  the  plan  to  this  point,  Mrs.  Chi- 
chester had  not  sufficient  reserve  of  tact  even  to  se- 
cure a  receipt  for  the  money  delivered.  She  left  the 
office  a  trifle  disappointed  at  the  necessary  wait,  but 

272 


MRS.  CHICHESTER    ENLIGHTENED 

gratified  with  her  stratagem  and  powers  of  "  getting 
her  way"  in  the  end.  On  her  way  home  she  found 
herself  too  fatigued  to  order  the  three  new  dresses 
which  she  felt  her  husband  had  forfeited  by  his  spend- 
thrift conduct.  However,  on  the  morrow  of  the  day 
of  triumph,  she  ordered  not  only  the  dresses,  but 
stockings  and  slippers  to  go  with  each,  in  addition  to 
many  less  important  requisites  of  her  toilet. 

All  these  goods  she  procured  on  credit.  Indeed, 
although  credit  was  not  a  novel  thing  in  Chichester's 
life,  a  larger  creature  grew  from  this  embryonic  bill- 
germ  than  ever  had  flourished  before  in  their  career. 

Credit  is  often  an  inside  decay,  that  creeps  in  un- 
obtrusively, like  the  rot  which  enters  the  back  door 
of  an  apple,  leaving  the  polished  exterior  whole,  while 
devouring  in  darkness  till  all  the  substance  to  the 
very  skin  is  gone. 

The  Chichesters  inaugurated  a  comprehensive  sys- 
tem of  rapid  internal  decay.  The  weeks  went  by, 
and  at  length  the  mail  brought  a  letter,  a  fatty  ex- 
pression of  regret  from  "  Mr.  Billings"  that  the  courts 
had  not  entirely  concluded  the  matter  "in  re  Gor- 
don." They  must  still  maintain  their  judicious  silence, 
but  at  the  utmost  another  month  would  see  the  mat- 
ter settled  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  With  many 
assurances  of  affectionate  esteem  and  admiration,  the 
letter  concluded  by  begging  his  client  to  remain  away 
18  273 


THE    INEVITABLE 


from  the  office  for  the  present,  and  to  "burn  this 
communication  without  delay." 

Credit  stuffed  its  maw  even  more  greedily  than 
before.  There  came  a  Hay,  however,  when  Bertha 
determined  to  call  upon  her  legal  adviser,  loathsome 
butchers  and  grocers  having  sent  their  respects  and 
ultimatums  at  the  end  of  odious  bills. 

The  private  head-quarters  of  Mr.  Portbridge  prov- 
ing to  be  tenanted  by  a  protoplasmic  newspaper  syn- 
dicate and  literary  bureau,  Mrs.  Chichester  wended 
her  way  again  to  the  Nucleus  Building  and  entered 
the  offices  of  Billings  &  Strong. 

A  man  in  a  frock  coat  and  light-gray  trousers, 
hands  in  pockets  and  eyes  on  the  floor,  was  walking 
up  and  down  in  the  place,  alone.  He  turned  about, 
revealing  a  face  with  jaw  muscles  more  than  usually 
developed,  keen  gray  eyes,  moustache  tobacco-stained, 
and  nose  a  trifle  hooked. 

"  Morning,"  said  he,  as  he  halted  in  his  parade  and 
kept  on  thinking  of  his  business.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don, good-morning,  madam.  I — er — I  seem  to  for- 
get. Hicks  versus  Coe,  or  Green  versus  Green?" 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Chichester,  smiling  witchingly, 
"  I  don't  quite  understand.  I  came  to  see  Mr.  Bill- 
ings. Isn't  the  gentleman  in?  That's  his  desk,  is 
it  not?" 

"  Clerk's  desk,  madam.  Billings  is  out  of  town,  so 
274 


MRS.  CHICHESTER    ENLIGHTENED 

is  the  clerk.  Too  hot  weather  for  even  lawyers  to 
fight.  Permit  me  to  introduce  myself — Strong,  A.  C. 
Strong,  at  your  service." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  I'm  delighted  to  meet 
you,  Mr.  Strong.  Your  face  almost  seems  familiar, 
but  faces  so  often  do,  Mr.  Strong — and  it  makes  me 
feel, — of  course,  it's  absurd, — but  it  makes  me  feel 
as  if  I  had  known  a  person  a  very  long  time." 

"  Uh — well,  sit  down,  madam,  sit  down." 

"  Why,  I  only  came  for  a  moment,  but  all  you  legal 
gentlemen  are  so  persuasive,"  and  she  took  the  chair. 
"  Did  you  tell  me,"  she  resumed,  "  that  the  gentleman 
who  sits  at  this  desk  is  the — clerk?" 

"  Clerk,  madam,  yes — clerk,  Portbridge — fat  man 
— mouth  like  a  hole  in  a  ham,  head  as  red  as  that 
ink." 

"  And  his  name — of  course,  he  is  Mr.  Billings  ?" 

"  Billings  ?  Billings  looks  like  a  whittled  bit  of 
last  year's  potato-skin,  with  a  better  head  than  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  ever  dared  to  own.  Sorry  he's  out." 

"  Oh,  said  Bertha,  attempting  still  to  smile.  "  It 
is  too  bad,  but  after  all — it  may  be  a  foolish  fancy — 
but  I  always  prefer  to  talk  to  a  pleasant-looking  man 
— if  you'll  excuse  the  forwardness,  it  does  so  seem  as 
if  I  have  known  you  all  my  life." 

"  Uh.  Thank  you,  madam.  You  called  in  about — 
it  isn't  Snow  versus  Black?" 

275 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Dear  me,  no.  How  intensely  interesting  all  you 
say  is,  Mr.  Strong.  I  just  came  in  to  inquire — just 
as  I  was  passing,  you  know, — about  the  Gordon  heir 
at  law, — David  Gordon." 

"  Exactly,"  said  he,  regarding  her  sharply.  "  Did 
you  say  your  name  is  Gordon?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  bless  you,  no."  And  Bertha  burst  into 
mellow  laughter.  "  My  name  is  Chichester — Mrs. 
James  Chichester — there,  I  have  a  visiting  card, — and 
we'd  be  charmed  to  have  you  call,  Mr.  Strong.  My 
name  used  to  be  Mrs.  George  Gordon,  and  my  daugh- 
ter's name  was  Gordon,  of  course,  but  even  as  a  child, 
when  her  father  died  and  Mr.  Chichester  fairly  made 
me  marry  again,  she  preferred  Chichester.  It's  so 
aristocratic — you  really  couldn't  blame  the  child.  Isn't 
it  comical,  really?" 

"  Very  comical,  indeed,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  espe- 
cially as  Mr.  George  Gordon  is  alive  and  kicking — 
hang  him!  He  kicks  around  so  fast  we  can't  even 
run  him  down  to  make  him  rich." 

"  Oh !"  cried  Bertha,  "  they  haven't  really  found 
him? — I  mean — it  isn't — it  can't  be  possible.  Why, 
if  all  the  property — the  hundred  thousand  dollars — 

is  left  to  him,  the  heirs — Mr.  Billings  didn't  tell  me 

There,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying.  You  legal  gen- 
tlemen fluster  me  so." 

"  You  started  a  very  fair  legal  deduction,"  Mr. 
276 


MRS.  CHICHESTER    ENLIGHTENED 

Strong  assured  her,  coldly.  "  George  Gordon  being 
alive,  as  we  have  ascertained,  there  are  no  other  heirs 
at  law,  as  there  would  be,  certainly,  if  the  fellow  were 
dead,  but " 

"  But  he  fell  off  the  steamer — 'Australian  steamer — 
and  was  drowned,"  volunteered  the  lady,  recovering 
ground. 

"  But  his  son " 

"  Oh,  who  told  you  he  had  a  son  ? — he  hasn't — how 
did  you  know?" 

" his  son  and  daughter  would  take  precedence 

in  the  matter  of  inheritance,"  he  concluded.  "  Uh, 
yes.  Permit  me  to  thank  you  for  adding  your  link 
to  the  chain  that  hangs  Portbridge.  Sugar-coated 
scoundrel  —  I  knew  it!  How  much  did  you  pay 
him?" 

"  I  paid  him "  She  started  to  cry,  but  checked 

herself  and  laughed  instead.  "  Really,  you  clever, 
clever  lawyers.  I'm  such  a  little  woman,  I  really 
can't  try.  I'm  really  confused.  I  must  hurry  home 
at  once.  So  pleased  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Strong." 

"  Uh,"  said  he,  eyeing  her  as  if  he  were  scrutinizing 
the  back  of  her  skull  through  her  transparent  arts. 
"  I  think  Portbridge  would  have  done  whatever  he  did 
for  half  the  money,  or  less.  If  you  paid  him  more  than 
fifty  cents  you  lack  discrimination.  I  suppose  he  prom- 
ised you  all  the  legacy  at  once  ?  Procuring  money  un- 

277 


THE    INEVITABLE 


der  false  pretences.  Don't  suppose  you  care  to  prose- 
cute the  case?" 

"  Prosecute  him — the  wretched  robber  ?  Yes,  I 
will !"  she  responded,  in  a  passion.  "  How  can  I  do 
it?  He  took  every  cent  I  had " 

"What  for?"  said  the  man,  in  a  cold-steel  voice. 
"  What  did  he  promise  to  do  ?" 

"  What  for  ?  Why,  he  said  he'd  get  me — he'd  stop — 
I  don't  remember — I " 

"  Then  you  don't  care  to  prosecute,  and  tell  about  it 
in  court?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  How  dare  you  stand  there 
and  insinuate  all  sorts  of  things  about  an  innocent 
woman?  I  have  never  been  treated  so — no  gentleman 
ever  speaks  to  me  like  that !" 

"  No  plug  hat  and  dress  suit  ever  told  you  the  truth, 
you  mean.  You  are  unfortunate  never  to  have  had  a 
friend  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
being  your  friend,  but  I  will  make  no  charge  for  let- 
ting you  know  that  whatever  you  paid  the  clerk  is 
lost.  At  present  you  have  no  rights  whatsoever  in  the 
Gordon  estate.  Madam,  I  wish  you  a  very  good-day." 

Mrs.  Chichester  burst  into  a  passionate  speech,  but 
the  man  merely  walked  to  an  inner  apartment.  She 
was  forced  to  retreat,  and  she  hastened  home  to  vent 
her  anger  on  the  slinking  dog  and  her  husband. 

Lawyer  Strong  penned  a  notice  to  the  clerk,  re- 
278 


MRS.  CHICHESTER    ENLIGHTENED 

lieving  that  functionary  of  further  duties  at  the  office, 
and  another  to  his  partner,  to  acquaint  him  with  the 
fact.  Then  he  placed  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
resumed  his  march,  working  knots  either  out  of  or 
into  the  case  of  Somebody  versus  Somebody  Else. 


279 


V 

ROGER'S   NEWS 


ASTUTE  as  Strong  &  Billings  were,  they  were  a  long 
time  discovering  the  whereabouts  of  Roger  Gordon 
through  the  medium  of  their  advertisement,  which 
eventually  came  to  the  notice  of  Doctor  Pingle.  They 
were  even  slower  in  ascertaining  anything  concerning 
Roger's  father,  George  Gordon.  At  the  time  of  Mrs. 
Chichester's  final  visit  to  their  offices  they  were  in  pos- 
session of  the  fact  that  the  nephew  of  David  Gordon 
had  left  Australia,  bound  presumably  for  America,  and 
this  was  all.  Any  assertion  to  Mrs.  Chichester  to  the 
contrary,  notwithstanding,  A.  C.  Strong  could  only 
conjecture,  at  the  best,  that  George  Gordon  was  still 
alive.  Naturally  Mrs.  Chichester  did  not  communicate 
the  fact  that  her  daughter  had  seen  the  much-sought- 
for  man  in  New  Orleans. 

The  summer  had  therefore  come  to  an  end  in  Eng- 
land before  any  intelligence  of  what  was  going  on  in 
America  was  sent  to  Roger.  The  warm,  bright  months 
had  been  an  intermezzo  to  Gordon  in  the  somewhat 
tragic  opera  of  his  life.  He  had  written  a  little  music, 
all  of  it  rose-tinted  by  the  influence  of  the  tender  pas- 
sion; he  had  rambled  woods  and  fields  with  Genevra, 
never  finding  even  nature  so  beautiful  as  she,  and 

280 


ROGER'S    NEWS 


he  had  quaffed  day  by  day  from  the  deep  cup  of 
content. 

Genevra  was  even  more  childishly  happy  than  he. 
She  was  not  so  afraid  to  be  joyous,  not  so  inherently 
suspicious  of  the  smile  of  the  jade,  Fate. 

The  date  for  the  wedding  was  set  for  December. 
The  autumn  being  exceptionally  fine  and  warm,  the 
Harberton's  and  Roger  remained  still  at  Datchet. 
However,  the  day  of  returning  to  town  was  approach- 
ing. The  garden-parties  the  two  had  attended  together 
were  becoming  to  Roger  and  Genevra  mere  memories 
of  charming  moments,  that  jumbled  themselves  with 
dreams  of  house-boats,  the  Henley  regatta,  and  days 
all  their  own  in  the  forests. 

The  plans  for  what  they  would  do  in  London  were 
formulating  delightfully,  when  Gordon  received  a  let- 
ter from  Strong  &  Billings. 

"  DEAR  SIR," — it  read,  "  After  several  months  of 
diligent  search,  we  have  received  satisfactory  evidence 
not  only  of  your  present  residence  abroad,  but  also  that 
you  are  without  doubt  the  son  of  George  Gordon,  and 
as  such  possibly  the  heir,  or  one  of  the  heirs,  of  said 
George  Gordon's  uncle,  David  Gordon,  recently  de- 
ceased. We  beg  to  inform  you  that  we  are  at  present 
engaged  in  further  search  for  the  said  George  Gor- 
don, whom  we  believe  to  be  somewhere  in  this  country, 

281 


THE    INEVITABLE 


but  who  may,  nevertheless,  be  dead.  We  have  pleasure 
in  writing  you  that  the  said  David  Gordon,  deceased, 
bequeathed  property  to  the  said  George  Gordon  to  the 
value  of  about  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  dollars. 
We  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  at  your  earliest  con- 
venience, our  trust  being  that  you  may  have  received 
intelligence  of  the  said  George  Gordon,  either  as  to 
his  demise  or  his  present  whereabouts,  if  he  is  still 
living.  We  are,  sir,  your  obedient  servants, 

"  BILLINGS  &  STRONG." 

Roger  read  this  letter  a  number  of  times,  and  then 
laid  it  down  on  his  table  and  stared  at  it  silently  for 
a  long  time.  The  old  excitement  which  always  arose 
in  his  breast  at  the  thought  of  his  father  returned  to 
make  his  heart  beat  faster.  After  all  these  years  of 
mystery,  to  have  such  a  thing  as  this  come  hunting 
him  out  gave  him  the  weird  sensation  as  of  a  shock 
from  a  summer  sky. 

Was  there,  then,  the  slightest  possibility  that  his 
father  lived?  Where  had  he  been  these  twenty- four 
years  and  over?  How  would  it  seem,  supposing  he 
should  ever  meet  his  father?  He  shook  his  head  as 
these  and  many  other  questions  came  to  him,  one  after 
another.  He  was  not  much  affected  by  the  news  of 
this  great  inheritance.  He  was  comfortably  provided 
for  already,  as  the  result  of  this  same  strange  father's 

282 


ROGER'S    NEWS 


foresight  and  generosity.  He  had  paid  back  to  Doctor 
Pingle  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  more  than  enough 
to  cover  what  his  economical  living  had  cost  him  dur- 
ing his  years  of  study,  but  what  he  had  then  remaining 
seemed  to  him  an  abundance.  He  was  only  concerned 
with  the  thought  of  whether  it  was  likely  that  his 
father  was  still  in  the  land  of  the  living.  He  thought 
this  could  hardly  be  so. 

Some  note  in  the  letter  his  father  had  left  for  him 
to  read  on  his  twenty-fourth  birthday  had  struck  an 
answering  chord  in  his  heart.  He  yearned  towards 
that  father.  He  would  have  been  so  glad  to  believe 
him  still  alive.  But  the  simple  affection  which  had 
actuated  all  that  his  father's  letter  to  himself  contained 
argued  that  were  that  father  still  this  side  of  the  grave 
he  would  write  again. 

Once  more  he  perused  the  letter  from  the  lawyers. 
"You  are  without  doubt  the  son  of  George  Gordon, 
and  as  such  possibly  the  heir,  or  one  of  the  heirs,"  he 
read,  and  there  he  halted. 

It  all  brought  back  the  thoughts  he  had  worried  upon 
as  a  boy  concerning  his  mother  and  the  little  child 
with  golden-brown  hair  whom  she  had  brought  once 
to  see  him  at  Doctor  Pingle's.  How  distinctly  he  re- 
membered every  word  the  doctor  had  ever  imparted 
to  him  of  that  mother.  He  had  once  admitted  that  the 
little  girl  whom  she  had  brought  that  time  was  fair 

283 


THE    INEVITABLE 


and  probably  his  half-sister  only.  This  was  doubtless 
the  reason  why  Billings  &  Strong  had  not  been  posi- 
tive as  to  whether  he  would  be  the  sole  heir,  or  only 
one  of  the  heirs  of  George  Gordon's  uncle,  in  the  event 
of  his  father's  demise.  That  Doctor  Pingle  had  spoken 
what  he  knew,  when  he  confessed  that  the  child  they 
had  seen — that  fair  little  girl — was  only  half  his  sister, 
he  felt  convinced.  If  this  were  so,  she  belonged  to  that 
mother ;  she  was  hers — wholly.  That  mother  had  ut- 
terly disowned  himself ;  he  disowned  that  mother,  and 
all  that  was  hers.  She  had  never  had  a  place  in  his 
thoughts,  as  his  father  had, — and  she  never  should 
have  now. 

Vaguely  disturbed  by  the  line  of  thought  which  the 
arrival  of  this  letter  had  awakened,  he  dismissed  the 
matter  as  best  he  could,  after  writing  to  Billings  & 
Strong  that  he  knew  nothing  whatsoever  of  his  father. 
Their  own  letter,  he  told  them,  had  given  him  his  first 
intimation  that  George  Gordon  could  by  any  possibility 
be  still  alive.  He  kept  the  whole  affair  to  himself. 
He  thought  if  he  steadfastly  refused  to  talk  the  matter 
over  with  Genevra,  it  would  the  sooner  pass  from  his 
mind.  It  could  not  make  him  any  happier;  it  could 
profit  nothing,  in  its  present  state  of  incompleteness. 

But  the  thoughts  of  it  clung  to  him  stubbornly,  day 
after  day,  during  all  the  following  week  of  rambles  at 
Genevra's  side. 

284 


ROGER'S    NEWS 


The  American  mail  seemed  to  skip  him  by  when  the 
mid-week  steamer  arrived  in  port,  but  the  next  one, 
as  he  had  thought  might  be  the  case,  brought  him 
three  of  the  home-messengers.  One  was  from  Strong 
&  Billings,  one  from  Teresa,  and  the  third  from  Doctor 
Pingle. 

He  read  Teresa's  little  sisterly  note  first.  To  her, 
Roger  would  ever  be  a  distant  star,  on  which  she  could 
gaze  with  a  faithful  love,  which  he  would  never  sus- 
pect, never  look  to  see.  That  never  a  word  of  this 
ecstasy,  which  had  come  to  maturity  in  the  young 
woman's  breast,  escaped  in  one  of  her  letters  argued 
exceptional  strength  of  character  in  the  girl  and  a 
remarkable  sense  of  reserve.  It  was  a  pleasant  little 
note  she  had  sent.  Roger  tossed  it  aside,  however,  in 
a  spirit  of  brotherly  indifference. 

From  Billings  &  Strong  he  read :  "  In  re  estate  of 
David  Gordon,  deceased,  we  have  to  inform  you  that 
your  father,  George  Gordon,  is  known  to  be  alive,  at 
present  somewhere  in  the  United  States.  Have  not 
been  able  to  ascertain  his  whereabouts  for  this  writing, 
but  hope  to  do  so  for  the  next  mail.  If  you  learn  of 
him,  which  seems  highly  probable,  kindly  communicate 
at  once.  Matter  of  inheritance  still  in  abeyance." 

With  his  hand  to  his  cheek  Roger  stared  into  the 
corner  of  the  room  vacantly.  He  had  felt  a  something 
like  a  dim  foreboding  that  his  father  would  prove  to 

285 


THE    INEVITABLE 


be  alive.  He  felt  a  strange  sense  of  the  nearness  of 
this  unknown  parent.  He  presently  felt  a  need  as  if 
for  a  freer  breath  of  air.  It  was  not  to  be  had  in  the 
house. 

With  Doctor  Pingle's  letter,  still  unopened,  held  in 
his  hand,  he  went  out,  and,  passing  through  the  street 
alone,  walked  away  from  all  the  houses  on  the  road 
that  went  by  the  river  leading  to  London. 

He  thought  there  might  be  further  news  of  his 
father  in  the  doctor's  letter.  There  was.  His  kindly 
old  friend  and  guardian  had  carefully  prepared  the 
way  for  his  news,  to  break  it  easily.  But  Roger  raced 
swiftly,  in  his  reading,  to  what  he  wanted  to  find. 

"  Naturally  I  could  not  for  a  moment  recognize  my 
visitor,"  he  read.  "  But  at  length  I  knew  him  for  your 
father.  He  had  come  from  San  Francisco,  which  city 
was  on  his  mind  as  the  place  of  your  birth  to  such  an 
extent  that  I  fear  he  may  have  returned  there  since. 
When  he  found  you  were  not  here,  I  had  much  diffi- 
culty in  impressing  upon  him  the  fact  that  you  are  in 
England,  and  not  in  California.  Lad,  I  have  never 
touched  one  penny  of  the  money  you  sent  me,  but  as  I 
had  not  the  whole  sum  in  the  house,  I  could  not  give  it 
into  your  father's  hands.  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  have 
done  so,  in  the  light  of  what  has  since  occurred. 

"  After  our  long  talk,  which  I  must  tell  you,  lad,  was 
a  little  painful,  I  gave  him  all  the  ready  cash  I  had  by 

286 


ROGER'S    NEWS 


me  at  the  moment.  This  was  before  we  went  off  to 
bed, — he  in  your  old  room,  which  I  keep  always  as  you 
left  it.  But  in  the  morning  he  was  gone.  I  wish  I 
might  be  able  to  state  to  you  where  he  has  now  wan- 
dered. I  fear,  as  above  written,  that  he  has  returned 
to  San  Francisco,  where,  of  course,  he  saw  you  last.  I 
fear  I  was  hardly  real  to  him,  now,  for  my  years  have 
laid  their  hands  upon  me,  to  stoop  my  back  and  to 
unthatch  my  old  poll.  Had  he  seen  more  of  my  old  self 
in  me,  mayhap  he  would  not  have  thought  so  much  on 
San  Francisco.  But  I  do  not  make  certain  he  has  gone 
in  that  direction.  I  have  written  of  his  visit  here,  and 
of  my  own  fear,  to  those  lawyers  in  New  York  City  to 
whom  I  supplied  your  address.  You  may  therefore 
hear  from  them  soon." 


VI 

A   PILGRIM 


ROGER  was  staggered  by  what  the  lawyers  and  Doc- 
tor Pingle  had  written.  His  father  was  actually  alive ! 
His  father !  George  Gordon,  the  man  who  left  him  as 
a  child,  for  the  love  of  a  woman,  was  searching  to  find 
him !  What  sort  of  a  father  would  he  prove  to  be,  if 
ever  they  two  should  meet? 

A  yearning  first,  and  then  a  dread,  and  once  more  a 
yearning,  possessed  the  boy.  He  was  still  a  boy;  he 
felt  more  like  a  little  boy  now,  with  this  shadow  of  his 
father  over  him,  than  he  had  for  years. 

How  was  it  that  now  this  parent  should  arise,  after 
all  this  time?  What  did  he  owe  to  this  stranger 
whom  he  might  meet  at  last?  He  had  builded  his  life 
himself,  apart  from  parents.  His  habit  was  not  to  have 
or  to  know  any  parents.  All  his  life  he  had  fought 
his  battles,  abandoned  to  whatsoever  might  result  by 
father  and  mother  alike.  Had  he  learned  they  were 
dead,  he  could  never  have  grieved.  How  should  a  son 
grieve  who  had  never  leaned  upon  this  father,  never 
had  an  opportunity  to  know  or  to  love  him? 

Perhaps,  he  thought,  the  inheritance  from  David 
Gordon,  falling  now  as  it  would  into  the  hands  of  his 
father,  would  keep  them  apart,  each  to  continue  his 

288 


A    PILGRIM 


separate  path.  Did  he  wish  to  meet  that  father,  or 
did  he  not  ?  After  all,  he  was  his  father,  the  author  of 
his  being,  in  whom  there  must  have  been  a  deep  affec- 
tion. What  did  it  mean,  this  father's  wandering  away 
to  San  Francisco?  Was  he  tugged  by  the  strings  of 
his  heart? 

He  wondered  what  his  father  was  like.  Perhaps  the 
man  had  suffered.  What  wifeless,  childless  spirit  had 
he  been,  wandering  somewhere  all  these  years  ?  What 
had  it  been  that  kept  him  silent  so  long? 

He  felt,  in  some  strange,  indefinable  way,  that  his 
father  needed  him — called  to  him  across  some  unknown 
abyss  of  years  and  space.  He  wondered  if  he  owed 
his  father  a  duty.  How  could  he?  What  right  had 
this  parent  now  to  summon  his  sympathy,  his  boyish 
love,  left  so  to  perish  in  his  heart  ?  As  a  boy  Roger  had 
been  so  alone;  as  a  man  he  had  been  isolated,  soli- 
tary. Yet  he  felt  as  if  he  were  running  to  meet  his 
father,  childishly,  with  all  the  yearning  in  his  breast 
impelling  him  onward.  Right  or  wrong  in  his  in- 
stinct, he  loved  that  father,  he  cried  to  him,  out  of 
a  loneliness  which  nothing  had  ever  been  able  to  satisfy 
in  his  being. 

He    was    walking    thus,    aimlessly,    rapidly.      No 

thought  was  in  his  mind  of  where  he  was  going.    He 

observed  nothing  as  he  went.     The  path  was  one  he 

had  traversed  often.    It  led  under  trees,  over  a  stile, 

19  289 


THE    INEVITABLE 


and  through  a  lane,  where  the  trunk  of  a  tree  lay  half 
concealed  in  a  bramble  growth  by  the  hedge. 

Roger  knew  of  the  old  piece  of  tree.  He  had  sat  on 
it  often  with  Genevra.  But  he  came  upon  it  before  he 
was  aware.  He  halted  abruptly  before  it,  for  a  way- 
farer sat  here  now,  and  something  about  him  arrested 
the  younger  man's  attention. 

The  man  looked  old.  He  was  bent,  but  his  frame 
was  large  and  strong.  His  clothing  was  shabby,  his 
shoes  were  plated  with  dust  and  were  broken  at 
the  toes.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat.  On  his  bowed 
head  the  iron-gray  hair,  slightly  wavy,  was  heavily 
massed. 

As  Gordon  halted,  the  man  looked  up  in  the  young 
fellow's  face.  Roger  started  as  he  steadily  returned 
the  gaze.  The  face  that  he  saw  was  thin,  apparently 
tanned  dark  brown,  and  stubbled  with  a  few  days' 
growth  of  iron-gray  beard.  There  was  an  unfathom- 
able look  of  sadness  and  longing  expressed  in  the 
countenance. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  can  you  tell 
me  if  I'm  close  to  this  place  here  on  the  card, — Rose- 
croft,  Datchet?" 

The  Harbertons  lived  at  Rosecroft.  Gordon  echoed 
the  name  with  a  strange  misgiving  at  his  heart.  He 
looked  at  the  man  before  him,  who  had  risen  from 
his  seat,  with  searching  eyes.  "  Whom  do  you  wish 

290 


A    PILGRIM 


to  see  at  Rosecroft?"  he  asked,  in  suppressed  excite- 
ment. 

The  stranger  was  looking  at  him  eagerly.  "  I'd  like 
to  see  a  man,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook.  "  I'm 
hunting  to  find  a  man.  He  must  be  grown  to  a  man 
by  now.  I'm  hoping  to  find  my  boy — and  his  name  is 
Roger  Gordon." 

Roger  raised  his  hand  to  his  cheek  slowly.  His  eyes 
were  wide,  and  almost  wild  in  their  look.  His  face 
took  on  that  rechiselled  look  that  came  at  times  of  deep 
emotion  in  his  heart.  He  was  searching  the  face  before 
him — searching  it  with  lightning-like  rapidity — to  find 
a  father. 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  I  felt 
it — coming.  My  name — is  Gordon — Roger  Gordon.  I 
am  your  boy." 

The  man  suddenly  sank  down  in  a  heap  on  the  earth, 
and  threw  his  arm  across  the  fallen  tree.  "  My  boy," 
he  sobbed,  convulsively,  "  my  little  baby  boy.  Found 
him  at  last — found  my  boy  at  last." 

Roger  felt  a  welling  up  in  his  heart  of  all  the  un- 
spent emotions  of  his  boyhood.  All  the  affection  He 
had  so  yearned  to  bestow  surged  like  a  flood  in  his 
being.  He  went  and  sat  down  on  the  ground  beside 
the  tattered,  dusty  figure,  and  placing  his  hand  on  his 
father's  head,  he  patted  the  masses  of  hair  boyishly, 
as  he  might  have  done  had  he  been  but  a  lad  giving 

291 


THE    INEVITABLE 


comfort  in  nature's  way.  The  story  of  an  infinite 
tragedy  had  borne  itself  in  upon  him  the  moment  he 
looked  in  his  parent's  face. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  said,  presently.  "  You  look 
tired — and  hungry.  We  must  go  along  home — some- 
where, home." 

The  father  turned  his  head,  to  look  at  the  serious 
face  so  near  his  own.  "  My  boy,"  he  repeated,  per- 
mitting the  tears  to  flow  across  his  cheeks  unheeded. 
He  put  out  a  thin,  large  hand,  that  trembled,  and  laid 
it  caressingly  on  Roger's  face.  "  My  boy,  my  boy," 
he  crooned  over  and  over  again.  "  Let  me  stay 
right  here,  honey,  I  don't  care  for — anything — not 
for  anything  more.  I  can  die  now  and  never  care 
again." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Roger.  "  Don't  say  a  thing 
like  that.  You're  tired,  you're  very  tired;  you  must 
have  walked  very  far.  But  now  you  will  rest ;  you'll 
be  strong  and  well " 

His  father  shook  his  head,  smiling  with  an  affection 
infinitely  tender.  "  I'll  never  get  well,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
never  get  rested,  little  boy.  I've  found  you.  I've  been 
living  to  find  you,  and  walking  and  working  so  long 
— to  tell  you  how  I  loved  my  little  boy.  Now  I've 
found  you — that's  all.  I've  found  you  at  last.  My 
boy's  a  gentleman;  my  boy's  got  a  heart — he's  got  a 
heart." 

292 


A    PILGRIM 


After  a  moment  Roger  said,  "  Don't,  please,  don't, 
any  more.  Let's  go  somewhere — home.  I'll  help  you. 
I'll  get  you  strong  again.  Won't  you  come?" 

His  father  turned  his  head,  with  a  strange  little 
movement  of  listening.  "  Honey,"  he  whispered, 
"  your  voice — just  like  your  mother's — only  kinder, 
more  honest.  Oh,  Lord,  my  little  boy,  you  don't 
scold  your  father — you  don't,  you  don't.  You  can 
blame  me,  honey.  I  expected  that,  but  I  had  to  find 
you;  I  never  could  rest  till  I  found  my  little  boy 
again." 

Roger  waited  patiently  for  the  outburst  of  renewed 
emotion  to  pass.  "  I'll  scold  if  you  don't  come  home," 
he  said,  presently. 

His  father  gave  his  head  a  vigorous  shake.  He  stood 
up.  His  figure  was  bent,  his  shoulders  were  rounded. 
He  tried  to  throw  himself  erect  and  to  hold  up  his 
head.  It  was  painful  to  see  this  struggle. 

"  I  was  once  a  man,  like  you,"  he  told  his  son,  "  but 
I  threw  myself  away.  I  couldn't  help  loving  your 
mother — no,  I  couldn't.  I  loved  my  little  boy,  but  she 
made  me  go  away.  That's  what  you  can  scold  me  for, 
honey.  I  don't  mind — now." 

He  put  his  hand  abruptly  over  his  face  and  bowed 
his  head  on  his  breast.  He  seemed  about  to  fall. 

Roger  advanced  to  him  eagerly  and  took  his  arm  in 
his  strong,  steady  hands. 

293 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  you — you  are  a  man,"  he  said,  catching  ten- 
derly at  the  straw  of  pride  still  remaining.  "  Come 
on,  you  are  hungry  and  tired  and  sore.  Don't  think 
about  anything  just  now  but  getting  home,  and  then 
you  can  tell  me — everything.  If  you  want  me  to,  I'll 
go  and  get  a  carriage — if  you  want  to  wait  for  me 
here.  You  are  rich,— did  you  know  it  ?  Anything  you 
want  you  can  have." 

His  father  was  making  an  effort  to  keep  up  his 
head.  "  Money — ain't  anything  to  me — now,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  found  my  little  boy.  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing more.  My  boy — don't  scold  me — that's  all  I 
want  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  won't  you  come, — father  ?"   Roger  begged. 

The  man,  aroused  by  that  word,  made  another  effort, 
one  of  those  struggles  that  it  hurt  Roger  to  see,  but 
which  made  a  thrill  go  through  his  heart.  The  man 
was  trying  to  speak  a  better  English,  trying  to  hold 
himself  as  Roger  did,  manfully  straight. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  try  to  be  a — credit 
to  my  son." 

Roger  saw  how  weak  the  traveller  was.  "  Shall  I 
go  for  a  cab?"  he  said. 

"  No,  honey,  bless  your  heart,"  said  his  father, 
taking  his  arm,"  I  reckon  I  walked  mighty  near  all 
the  way  from  New  Orleans  to  San  Francisco,  and  I 
reckon  I  can  walk  a  little  more." 

294 


A    PILGRIM 


"  We  can  go  slowly.  Don't  try  to  hurry,"  said 
Roger.  "  Rest  another  minute  first." 

The  man  looked  at  him  with  a  hungry  light  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  knew  he  would  never  catch  up  on  the 
affection  he  had  always  so  longed  to  bestow.  There 
was  also  a  shadow  as  of  awakening  pride,  that  made 
a  little  mark  of  seriousness  on  the  furrowed  brow. 
"  Roger,"  he  said,  hesitating  for  a  choice  of  words 
he  had  once  employed,  "  I  don't  look — respectable." 
He  stopped,  and  then  added,  "  If  only  I  could — 
have  a  bath,  and  something  clean,  I  could  walk 
better." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,  never  mind,"  said  Roger. 
"  But  if  you  would  like  to  rest  a  little  here,  and  would 
feel  any  better  in  something  new,  I  could  go  and  get 
some — clothing  and  bring  the  things  back,  and  then 
we  could  go  in  the  trees,  near  the  river,  and  fix  you 
up.  Would  you  like  to  have  me  do  that?  Do  you 
want  to  wait?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  wait,"  said  the  pilgrim.  "  But — you  won't 
forget — to  come  back?  Oh,  I  know  you  won't,  my 
honey — I  know  you  won't.  But  I  couldn't — bear  it 
now." 

"  No,  I  won't  forget  to  come  back,"  said  Roger, 
gravely.  "  I  couldn't.  I  never  forget — anything.  I'll 
come  back,  soon.  Sit  here  and  rest.  I  shall  not  be 
long." 

295 


THE    INEVITABLE 


He  turned  around  as  he  came  to  the  bend  of  the  path, 
and  waved  his  hand  and  smiled.  But  his  heart  was 
filled  with  a  chaos  of  conflicting  emotions.  It  was 
all  so  unreal,  and  yet  so  poignantly  presented.  He  felt 
in  one  moment  that  he  was  the  father  himself;  in  the 
next  that  he  was  only  a  lad,  awakening  to  an  acquaint- 
ance with  his  parent. 

He  went  by  the  most  unfrequented  streets,  to  avoid 
a  possible  meeting  with  Genevra.  He  could  not  bear 
to  think  of  himself  and  her  just  at  present.  He  pur- 
chased clothing,  shoes,  and  food.  With  all  these  things 
in  two  bundles  he  hastened  away  to  that  path  through 
the  fields  again,  and  came  to  the  fallen  tree. 

His  father  was  there.  He  was  sitting  on  the  ground, 
half  reclining  against  the  old  tree-trunk,  asleep.  Nature 
had  claimed  this  moment  in  which  to  restore  somewhat 
of  the  strength  he  had  used  to  exhaustion.  On  his 
care-worn  face  a  little  troubled  look  alternated  with  a 
wan  smile.  The  marks  of  suffering,  patiently  borne, 
could  not  entirely  obliterate  the  lines  of  refinement  still 
to  be  seen. 

Roger  sat  down  quietly  and  waited.  The  sun  shone 
warmly.  The  summer's  last  bee  buzzed  lazily  in  the 
grass.  Roger's  yearning  was  the  thing  the  father  saw 
when  at  last  he  opened  his  eyes. 

When  the  man  walked  forth  from  the  cover  of  trees 
at  last,  clothed  and  comforted  anew,  it  seemed  as  if 

296 


A    PILGRIM 


he  had  shed  the  dusty  shell  of  some  former  self  and 
left  it  behind  in  the  shadows. 

The  two  walked  but  slowly  back  to  the  town.  Roger 
knew  of  a  house  where  rooms  could  be  rented. 

"  Don't  you  care  about  me,"  said  his  father,  when  he 
sank  in  a  chair  at  last.  "  I  know  I'll  never  get  rested 
any  more.  I  don't  care,  now — unless  you  are  sorry — 
your  father  came.  But  I  know  you  ain't, — I'm  sorry 
I  said  it.  I  know  you  ain't.  You  never  scold." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  sleep,"  said  Roger.  "  And 
when  you  wake  you  can  tell  me — everything  I've  got 
to  know." 


397 


VII 

A   STORY    COMPLETED 


THE  story  that  George  Gordon  told  fitted  with  pain- 
ful consequence  upon  what  Roger  already  knew  of  that 
run-away  marriage,  the  mother's  repudiation  of  him- 
self, and  the  slavish  indulgence  which  the  man  had 
been  powerless  to  withhold  against  her  whims,  per- 
suasions, and  commands. 

When  San  Francisco  had  been  left  behind,  they  had 
gone  to  Honolulu,  and  thence  to  Japan,  according  to 
the  dictates  of  Bertha's  fancy.  For  a  year  they  had 
been  irresponsibly  happy  in  their  wanderings.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  when  their  money  was  almost  en- 
tirely expended,  they  had  started  for  Sydney,  Aus- 
tralia. Bertha  had  then  discovered  she  was  about  to 
become  a  mother  once  again.  This  and  the  state  of 
their  finances  awakened  in  Bertha's  nature  a  germ  of 
hatred  for  her  husband, — a  thing  which  grew  rapidly. 

Bertha's  child  had  been  born  on  the  ocean.  It  was  a 
girl — a  little  golden-haired,  fair-skinned  mite,  so  pretty 
that  even  its  mother  was  flattered  by  its  advent.  They 
named  it  Sunshine,  and  the  father's  heart  was  soothed 
a  little  where  it  ached  for  his  first-born,  so  shamelessly 
abandoned. 

Bertha  had  not  been  long  confined  in  her  berth. 
298 


A    STORY    COMPLETED 


She  had  never  been  ill  on  the  sea,  and  on  this  occasion 
the  ocean  breezes  quickly  restored  her  strength.  She 
and  the  little  one  became  at  once  the  idols  of  all  on 
board.  Then,  when  rougher  weather  had  made  her 
husband  ill,  the  woman's  loathing  for  him  returned  ten- 
fold. She  hated  illness;  she  could  not  bear  his  hag- 
gard face.  He  had  mended  sufficiently  to  be  again  on 
deck  before  the  steamer  arrived  at  her  destination.  On 
the  evening  when  the  harbor  was  gained  he  had 
climbed  to  the  upper  deck,  and  was  leaning  against 
a  railing  when  Bertha  came  to  where  he  was. 

"  She  came  up,  laughin'  like  her  old  honey  self," 
said  the  man,  relating  the  incident,  a  far-away,  remi- 
niscent look  in  his  eyes.  "  Then,  when  I  was  feeling 
happy,  she  said,  '  Oh,  you  are  standing  on  my  dress, 
git  off!'  And  she  gave  me  a  push.  The  push  didn't 
hurt,  but  I  lost  my  balance  and  got  a  fall,  down  to 
the  lower  deck.  That  was  the  last  I  knew, — and  I 
never  saw  her — never  saw  my  little  baby-girl  again." 

The  remainder  of  his  story  was  painful.  The  fall 
he  had,  the  man  related,  not  only  rendered  him  wholly 
unconscious  for  the  time,  but  it  wrenched  his  spinal 
cord  in  such  a  manner  that  his  brain  was  affected  and 
one  side  of  his  body  paralyzed.  He  could  see,  hear, 
and  think  confusedly,  but  his  tongue  had  been  locked 
in  his  head  and  the  grip  had  departed  from  his  mus- 
cles, even  those  which  could  still  be  moved.  When,  at 

299 


THE    INEVITABLE 


length,  his  faculties  were  somewhat  restored,  he  had 
found  himself  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  where  he  was  prac- 
tically a  prisoner. 

He  told  of  his  partial  return  to  strength.  He  had 
finally  been  dismissed  as  cured  and  was  put  to  work 
with  natives.  He  was  thus  shackled  to  labor  before 
he  was  quite  emancipated  from  the  effects  of  his  fall. 

His  memory  had  returned  in  fragments.  He  re- 
called San  Francisco,  with  its  fogs,  and  a  little  about 
his  abandoned  child,  to  find  whom  became  the  passion 
of  his  life.  A  few  years  only  before  his  return  to 
America  he  had  learned  that  his  wife  sailed  again  to 
San  Francisco,  secured  a  divorce,  and  married  a  man 
who  had  travelled  on  the  steamer  with  them  on  that 
final  trip.  He  was  a  wealthy  man.  His  name  was 
James  Chichester. 

Finally,  concealing  himself  on  a  steamer  bound  for 
New  Orleans,  Gordon  had  arrived  once  more  in  the 
United  States.  Discovered  on  the  vessel,  as  soon  as 
the  voyage  was  fairly  begun,  he  had  at  once  been 
pressed  into  service.  At  New  Orleans  he  secured  em- 
ployment as  an  ordinary  laborer.  He  was  saving  his 
money  and  patching  together  his  scraps  of  memory 
as  fast  as  they  came.  He  had  believed  that  once  in 
San  Francisco  he  could  find  the  old  localities  which 
memory  refused  to  render  back. 

He  had  walked  a  great  part  of  the  distance  to  Cali- 
300 


A    STORY    COMPLETED 


fornia.  Of  his  disappointment,  when  he  came  to  the 
city  of  the  Golden  Gate  and  learned  that  Doctor  Pin- 
gle  had  been  gone  for  many  years,  he  said  but  little. 
He  had  plodded  onward  once  more,  headed  for  Mis- 
souri, to  find  the  child  he  had  been  compelled  to  aban- 
don. 

Roger  knew  the  tale,  or  could  readily  supply  what 
remained  to  be  told,  after  that. 

When  it  was  complete,  and  his  father  lay  asleep  in 
the  snow-white  bed,  the  thought  that  haunted  Gor- 
don's mind  was  of  that  dimly  remembered  day  when 
his  mother  came  to  Doctor  Pingle  with  his  sister,  little 
Sunshine  Gordon. 

She  was  not  a  mere  half,  she  was  all  his  sister.  That 
little  white,  fair-haired  girl,  untouched  by  the  taint 
of  a  darkened  skin,  was  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as 
himself. 

"  Little  Sunshine  Gordon,"  he  said  to  himself,  time 
after  time.  And  he  wondered  how  she  had  fared — 
with  that  mother. 


301 


VIII 

A    CONCEPTION    OF   DUTY 


A  LITTLE  wistful  crooning  as  the  next  few  days 
went  by,  a  little  yearning  as  he  smiled  at  Roger,  a 
word  of  happiness  to  Genevra  when  she  called, — and 
George  Gordon  died. 

"  Getting  rested,  my  honey,  because  you  never 
scold,"  he  said.  "  Found  my  boy  at  last."  And  he 
went  to  sleep. 

Roger  had  hardly  had  time  for  the  filial  love  poten- 
tial in  his  breast  to  expand  to  its  limitations.  He 
had  only  commenced  to  become  acquainted  with  his 
father,  after  the  first  up- welling  of  pity  and  longing 
which  the  man's  arrival  had  occasioned,  before  all  was 
over.  But  he  had  seen  enough  to  understand  why 
and  how  his  father  had  been  lovable  in  his  youth.  The 
gentleness,  the  anxiety  to  please,  the  almost  child-like 
wish  never  to  scold  or  to  be  scolded,  had  made  the  man 
unusual.  But  in  the  prime  of  an  ordinary  life,  as  he 
was  when  this  end  came  so  swiftly,  George  Gordon 
appeared  loaded  with  years  which  had  broken  him  in 
every  way  that  a  human  being  ever  breaks.  In  his 
final  repose,  however,  he  reassumed  the  dignity  of 
manhood  and  the  beauty  of  features  which  had  so 
potently  attracted  Bertha  Neuville  when  first  they 

302 


A    CONCEPTION    OF    DUTY 

met.  Roger  saw,  with  some  reason  to  wonder,  that 
the  still  face  was  much  more  lightly  touched  with  the 
tint  of  dark  than  was  his  own.  He  saw  that  to  any 
casual  observer  there  was  not  an  indication  of  the 
African  lineage  behind  this  man.  Apparently  all  of 
this,  for  the  three  of  them,  father,  son,  and  little  Sun- 
shine, had  come  upon  himself.  But  even  this  was 
behind  him  now. 

The  trials  and  pains  of  all  this  new  element  of 
melancholy  in  his  life  had  served  to  cement  more 
closely  than  ever,  if  possible,  the  ties  between  himself 
and  Genevra.  She  had  shown  him  before  what  a 
sweetheart  and  companion  could  be;  she  had  shown 
him  since  that  ineffably  tender  compassion  of  her 
latent  maternity,  in  the  simple,  pretty  little  things  she 
did  for  his  father. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said  to  her,  when  finally  everything 
was  concluded,  save  that  last  little  stroll  by  the  river, 
before  the  return  to  town,  "  I  have  thought  and  thought 
about  my  sister,  and  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  now  I 
have  at  last  decided  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to 
America,  to  find  her  and  give  her  half  of  my  father's 
inheritance.  I  don't  see  what  else  I  can  do.  I  could 
never  be  happy  till  that  was  done.  So  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  I  am  right  to  go,  and  then  in  a  month 
I  shall  be  here  once  more,  to  claim  my  wife,  and  we 
will  never  part  again." 

303 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"Oh,  Roger,"  she  said.  "Return  to  America? 
Suppose  anything  should  happen  ?  Couldn't  you  have 
your  solicitor  manage  the  business  just  as  well  ?" 

"  If  I  felt  I  could  trust  it  to  any  one  else,  I  would  do 
so,  gladly,"  said  Roger.  "  But  it  is  quite  a  worry.  It's 
a  thing  that  is  on  my  mind  day  and  night.  I  must 
do  it,  or  have  no  peace.  I  have  thought  of  every  other 
plan,  but  this  one  I  am  sure  is  the  best  in  every 
particular.  I  shan't  be  gone  long.  A  few  weeks, 
dear,  and  I  shall  be  here  again,  and  life  will  begin 
at  last!" 

"  It's  noble  of  you,  big  boy,"  she  said,  employing  her 
latest  name  of  endearment.  "  It's  like  you,  dear — 
splendid  and  generous  always, — but  I  can't — want  you 
to  go." 

"  There  is  nothing  noble  about  it,"  he  told  her.  "  It 
seems  more  like  a  duty.  It's  almost  a  mania — some- 
where in  my  brain.  There  must  have  been  trials  and 
• — things  in  her  life.  I  must  do  it  before  I  can  dare 
to  be  happy." 

He  wanted  to  cry  out  that  Sunshine  must  have 
suffered  a  thousand  things  with  such  a  mother;  that 
through  all  he  had  undergone  himself  she  seemed  to 
call  to  him,  helplessly  and  as  one  alone;  that  unless 
he  went  to  her,  doing  what  his  sense  of  justice  de- 
manded, she  might  never  receive  what  he  deemed 
to  be  hers.  But  all  of  this  he  throttled.  He  could 

304 


A    CONCEPTION    OF    DUTY 

utter  no  word  against  that  mother.  It  was  terrible 
enough  to  feel  what  he  did. 

He  dreaded  this  duty  far  more  greatly  than  he 
would  ever  have  permitted  Genevra  to  know.  It 
was  already  a  fever  in  his  veins.  To  hasten  across 
the  ocean,  to  find  Sunshine  Gordon,  give  her  the 
half  of  what  he  would  own,  and  then  to  call  him- 
self free, — to  live  his  own  life,  to  go  his  own  ways, 
— all  this  burned  so  hotly  within  him  that  he  had  no 
peace. 

"  But  if  anything  should  happen,"  said  Genevra 
again,  taking  his  arm  and  his  hand,  as  they  walked 
by  the  river.  "  Oh,  dearest,  I  know  you  will  go.  I 
can  feel  it.  I  see  how  you  think.  But  please,  please 
don't  remain  long  away.  I  don't  wish  to  have  you 
think  me  selfish.  I  want  you  to  do  noble  things  all 
your  life,  as  you  always  have,  but  I  love  you  so  it  is 
hard  to  give  you  up,  even  for  a  week.  A  month  will 
be  so  long.  You  won't  be  gone  more  than  a  month, 
big  boy?" 

"  Not  so  long  as  that,  if  I  can  possibly  arrange  to 
come  back  again  sooner,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  wish  to 
go.  I  feel  that  I  must.  And  you  are  always  so 
thoughtful,  so  right.  If  love  for  you  had  not  taught 
me  the  sweetness  and  the  beauty  of  womanhood,  I 
doubt  if  I  should  wish  to  go  on  this  mission.  When 
I  know  that  you  send  me,  out  of  the  loveliness  of  your 
20  305 


THE    INEVITABLE 


own  nature,  how  glad  I  shall  be  of  the  wonderful  mo- 
ment of  turning  to  hasten  back !" 

"  But  you  will  never  let  anything  happen  ?"  she 
asked  him  yet  again.  "  If  anything  should,  it  would 
break  my  heart.  I  could  never  forgive  myself  for 
letting  you  go.  You  are  sure — absolutely  sure — that 
you  couldn't  arrange  it  in  some  other  way?" 

"  I  shouldn't  think  of  going  if  I  could,  to  my  own 
peace  of  mind,"  he  replied.  "  No.  I  feel  it  is  just  to 
be  my  last  little  trial.  There  is  nothing  much  left 
that  could  occur  now.  Everything  has  come  that  could, 
to  affect  my  life.  I  shall  soon  be  back,  and  then  the 
whole  world  is  ours — mine,  for  you  are  more  than  all 
the  world." 

She  clung  to  his  arm  and  held  to  his  hand  tightly 
as  they  walked.  After  a  moment  of  silence  she  said, — 

"  Dearest,  I  want  you  to  come  back  to  me  just  as 
you  are  now.  Please  don't  let  anything  change  you, 
even  a  little.  You  are  all  mine  now,  just  as  I  am  all 
yours.  I  love  you  just  as  you  are,  my  big  boy,  so 
honest,  so  kind,  so  pure  in  all  your  thoughts  and  deeds. 
I  love  everything  there  is  in  your  nature.  I  shouldn't 
want  one  little  thing  removed  or  altered.  It  is  so 
precious,  so  sacred,  to  have  you  the  way  you  are. 
Promise  me,  dearest,  you  will  be  just  the  same  when 
you  come  back  and — kiss  me  again." 

"  I  waited  all  those  years,  and  loved  you  always," 
306 


A    CONCEPTION    OF    DUTY 

he  told  her,  earnestly.  "  I  should  love  you  the  same 
way,  and  be  the  same,  in  my  hope  to  deserve  you,  even 
if  I  had  to  wait  a  hundred  years  more.  I  am  more 
yours  than  ever.  I  love  you  more  than  ever  I  did. 
To-morrow  I  shall  love  you  more  than  I  can  to-day. 
And  the  next  day  more  than  that.  And  so  on,  with 
every  day  in  every  year,  till  only  eternity  and  all  space 
can  hold  my  love.  I  shall  never  change,  precious,  ex- 
cept to  love  you  more.  So  when  I  turn  homeward, 
you  shall  feel  that  I  am  coming,  just  as  I  shall  feel 
the  days  grow  sweeter  and  brighter.  I  am  all  yours, 
dearest,  forever." 


307 


IX 

THE   UNESCAPABLE 


ROGER  carried  away  a  last  picture  of  London,  with 
Genevra  for  its  centre  and  a  glimpse  of  all  the  others 
as  a  background.  Lady  Denby,  always  genuine,  sent 
him  a  message  of  regard  and  a  promise  to  have  Ge- 
nevra ready  for  the  wedding.  Lennox  parted  from  his 
friend  with  a  regret  which  had  come  with  that  strong 
affection  in  which  he  would  hold  his  friend  through 
any  trials  and  disappointments  of  his  own.  Lady 
Fitzhenry,  disdainful  and  already  concerning  her- 
self with  a  lion  more  willing  to  be  tamed,  was  more 
distant  than  a  comparison  with  mere  space  could  ex- 
emplify. 

But  after  Genevra's  sweet  wishes  and  smiles  on  his 
journey,  the  next  thing  dear  to  the  boyish  heart  that 
beat  in  Gordon's  breast  was  the  memory  he  was  taking 
with  him  of  Harberton's  hopes  to  see  him  back  with 
them  soon,  hopes  actuated  by  a  fondness  which  the 
older  man  had  revealed  as  frankly  as  had  Genevra  her- 
self. 

So  many  years  had  passed  since  Roger's  last  trip 
upon  the  ocean  that  many  things  were  novel  to  him 
now,  and  of  absorbing  interest.  The  passenger-list 
was  a  long  one,  so  many  belated  Americans  were  has- 

308 


THE    UNESCAPABLE 


tening  homeward  after  having  remained  abroad  as 
long  as  time  or  finances  would  permit. 

Thrown  into  company  made  up  almost  exclusively 
of  his  own  countrymen  and  women,  Gordon  found  him- 
self regarded  soon  by  questioning  eyes,  to  the  manner 
of  the  gaze  of  which  he  had  long  been  unaccustomed. 
He  thought  at  first  there  must  be  something  peculiar 
about  his  manner  of  dress.  Then  the  thing  became 
clear  so  suddenly  that  a  hot  flame  of  color  burned  up 
in  his  bronze  cheeks  and  his  deep-set  eyes  denoted  the 
recrudescence  of  galling  memories.  It  was  the  tint  of 
his  skin  that  had  marked  him  for  notice.  He  realized 
that  the  country  of  his  heart,  his  beloved  America, 
would  never  be  a  haven  of  delights  again.  Boyhood 
will  be  happy,  no  matter  what  its  passing  anguishes; 
manhood  loses  its  grasp  upon  the  simpler  joys  and 
quickens  its  capacity  for  aches  of  the  heart. 

The  habit  of  a  solitary  life  had  its  advantages. 
Roger  felt  as  utterly  alone  on  that  steamship,  filled 
with  its  microcosm  of  a  nation,  as  he  might  have  done 
in  Sahara.  But  he  was  not  permitted  to  forget  that 
despite  his  achievements,  his  wealth,  and  his  culture, 
he  belonged  apart  from  his  whiter  brethren.  When 
the  seats  were  allotted  at  the  tables,  he  had  no  place 
with  his  fellow-passengers.  He  found  himself  seated 
at  a  small  table,  specially  provided,  with  another  man 
in  whose  features,  and  darkened  face  as  well,  he  recog- 

309 


THE    INEVITABLE 


nized  the  presence  of  that  cogent  force,  the  African 
blood.  Too  well  balanced  at  last  to  permit  humiliation 
to  claim  him  for  its  own,  he  accepted  the  ruling  of 
caste  as  a  thing  once  again  to  be  expected. 

As  he  took  the  seat  provided  for  him  thus,  Roger 
bowed,  silently,  to  the  man  with  whom  he  shared  this 
isolation. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Gordon  ?"  said  the  stranger, 
courteously.  "  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  introduce 
myself.  My  name  is  Jefferson  Clark  Jefferson.  I  took 
the  liberty,  which  I  trust  you  will  pardon,  of  ascer- 
taining your  name.  I  knew  we  should  be  thrown 
somewhat  frequently  together." 

"  I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Jefferson,  I  am  sure," 
said  Roger.  "  It  looks  as  if  we  may  have  a  pleasant 
trip." 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mr.  Jefferson  replied,  and  then  he 
said  no  more.  Instinctively  he  felt  that  Gordon  was 
unusually  reserved. 

Roger  presently  felt  his  reply  had  been  cold.  "  Have 
you  been  in  England  long?"  he  asked,  desirous  of 
appearing  more  responsive. 

"  Only  three  or  four  months.  I  went  there  to  elicit 
sympathy  for  the  New  Liberia  movement,"  the  other 
answered.  "  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  our  work, 
or  at  least  of  our  hope?" 

"  I  fear  I  have  overlooked  it,"  Gordon  confessed. 
310 


THE    UNESCAPABLE 


"  I  have  been  on  the  Continent  until  a  few  months  ago. 
I  am  wofully  behind,  on  reading  the  papers." 

"  There  has  been  very  little  about  it  in  print.  It 
is  not  an  important  matter  as  yet.  It  may  never  be 
important,"  said  Jefferson,  with  a  smile  as  if  hope  had 
grown  faint  about  his  project.  "  There  are  only  a 
few  of  us  working.  But  at  least  I  have  interested  a 
great  philanthropist  to  some  extent.  He  is  providing 
a  transport  free  of  charge." 

"  Oh,  I  doubt  if  I  understand  just  exactly  what  you 
want  of  a  transport,"  Roger  told  him.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
appear  so  ignorant." 

"  My  trouble  is  in  always  presupposing  that  every 
one  knows  as  much  about  our  little  scheme  as  I  do 
myself,"  the  other  said,  cheerfully.  "  A  few  of  us 
believe  that  Africa — Liberia — is  the  place  for  the  Afri- 
can. We  have  collected  a  colony  together  to  try  the 
experiment  again.  It  failed  somewhat  before,  but 
there  seems  to  be  no  reason  why  it  should  fail  always. 
And,  as  I  say,  at  least  I  have  secured  free  transporta- 
tion from  New  York  City  to  Liberia  for  all  who  will 
join  in  our  pilgrimage,  and  we  shall  test  our  theoretical 
solution  of  the  great  problem  as  earnestly  as  possible, 
come  what  may." 

"  You  mean  that  a  number  of  people  are  going  to 
Liberia — Africa — from  America  ?  I  should  think  your 
project  might  be  successful,"  Roger  answered.  "  Do 

3" 


THE    INEVITABLE 


you  like  England?"  he  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

His  new  acquaintance  knew  from  Gordon's  abrupt 
change  of  the  subject  that  something  sensitive  had  been 
touched  upon  by  their  conversation.  He  had  seen  re- 
sults like  this  before.  He  was  a  gentleman  himself, 
with  delicate  instincts. 

"  England  is  a  very  beautiful  country,  especially  in 
the  summer,"  he  said.  And  the  subject  of  the  problem 
dropped — for  the  moment. 


312 


X 

THE    PROBLEM    OF   A    RACE 


ON  shipboard  the  seriously  minded  soon  find  them- 
selves sifted  together  in  one  little  group,  while  the 
volatile-headed  individuals  just  as  certainly  gravitate 
together  in  another,  larger  contingent.  Roger  and 
Jefferson  formed  even  less  than  a  group. 

To  Gordon,  who  had  never  thought  upon  a  negro 
problem  in  his  life,  the  aims  and  hopes  of  his  friend 
became  a  fascinating  topic.  He  liked  the  man,  not 
only  for  his  knowledge  of  and  interest  in  what  he 
termed  his  people,  but  also  because  of  his  personality. 
Jefferson  was  honest,  earnest,  broad-minded,  and  an 
altruist,  self-designated  to  work  for  the  race  to  which, 
by  his  color,  he  belonged.  He  was  a  college  man, 
highly  educated ;  he  counted  among  his  friends  many 
of  the  most  esteemed  of  America's  citizens. 

"  But  why  should  the  negroes  leave  the  United 
States?"  said  Roger,  when  the  subject  was  broached 
again.  "  Why  not  educate  them  where  they  are,  and 
make  them  better  citizens, — I  mean,  citizens  who  will 
be  able  to  take  a  higher  place  than  at  present  in  the 
nation's  growth?" 

"  You  see,  so  often  book-education  merely  makes  the 
negro  a  '  smarty,'  to  express  it  as  I  have  heard  it  put," 


THE    INEVITABLE 


said  Jefferson.  "  He  is  no  longer  contented  then  to 
be  a  workingman.  He  wishes  to  be  like,  and  to  asso- 
ciate with,  the  whites.  That  is  impossible.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  he  is  trained  in  industrial  arts,  even  well, 
he  must  always  be  in  a  class  by  himself.  He  can  never 
be  assimilated.  That  is  perhaps  the  most  terrible  part 
of  it  all.  There  are  sometimes  exceptions  to  the  rule, 
but  in  America,  part  negro  makes  a  man  all  negro,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean,  the  white  people  will  not 
care  to  associate,  in  America,  with  a  man  whom 
they  suspect  of  being  even  partially  of  African 
blood."  Roger  did  not  bring  himself  to  say  that 
easily. 

"  I  mean  that  exactly,"  agreed  Jefferson.  "  Almost 
a  drop  suffices  to  drag  a  man  down  to  the  ordinary 
negro  level.  That  sounds  brutal.  The  truth  is  often 
brutal.  Then  what  can  be  done?  In  such  circum- 
stances how  could  a  nation  assimilate  so  vast  a  throng, 
even  supposing  the  inclination  existed,  which  is  far 
from  being  the  case  ?  See,  then,  what  an  un-American 
institution  must  result,  unless  we  go  to  Africa  once 
more.  Even  granting  that  the  best  of  education,  which 
is  that  along  industrial  lines,  be  vouchsafed  for  our  mil- 
lions of  negroes,  they  can  never  enjoy  the  caste  of 
the  whites.  And  could  caste,  such,  for  instance,  as 
unmans  India,  be  an  American  institution?  I  think 

314 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    A    RACE 

not.  I  see  but  one  solution  to  the  problem,  and  I  fear 
that  is  almost  impossible." 

"  Would  they  know  what  to  do  in  Africa  now,  after 
all  these  years  of  acclimatization  in  another  land?" 
said  Gordon. 

"  Perhaps  not.  Some  would.  If  we  are  really 
worthy,  if  there  is  a  spark  of  greatness  or  a  germ  of 
evolution  in  us,  we  could  build  up  a  great  nation  in 
the  country  to  which  we  belong.  We  have  been  given 
a  start  along  the  lines  of  a  higher  civilization.  Can 
we  work  out  our  destiny  along  the  lines  of  something 
truly  heroic?  If  not,  we  shall  fail  in  America  as  sig- 
nally as  we  might  in  Africa.  When  the  horde  grows 
larger,  when  the  lines  of  caste  grow  too  irritating  to 
be  endured,  when  a  pseudo-education  has  inflamed 
rather  than  enlightened  the  average  negro  mind,  then 
the  struggle  will  come,  and  our  failure  will  be  a  tale 
of  carnage  instead  of  one  of  economics.  I  am  one  of 
the  horde.  I  have  wished  a  thousand  times  I  might 
have  been  an  Indian,  but  what  I  am  that  I  must  accept. 
I  have  seen  some  of  the  hordes,  the  great  unleavened 
lump.  It  is  no  worse  than  many  another  lump, — Lon- 
don's, for  instance.  I  have  come  to  believe  that  those 
who  talk  most  glibly  of  leavening  the  lump,  no  mat- 
ter where,  have  never  seen  the  lump.  And  I  could 
not  wish  that  any  of  them  had." 

Roger  was  amazed  at  this  speech.  It's  frankness, 
3iS 


THE    INEVITABLE 


its  confessions,  the  man's  cried-out  wish  that  he  too 
might  have  been  an  Indian,  as  he  himself  had  wished, 
awed  him  and  made  him  think  as  he  had  never  thought 
before. 

"  Then  you  don't  think  your  present  scheme  will 
really  leaven  what  you  call  the  lump?"  he  said. 

"  I  wish  I  could  hope  so,"  Jefferson  answered.  "  I 
wish  we  could  move  the  lump,  at  any  rate.  I  am  half 
a  white  man.  I  am  all  an  American.  God  forgive  me 
the  boast,  I  think  I  love  it  more  than  many  who  are 
white  all  through.  It  will  be  a  far,  far  better  republic 
without  us.  I  should  weep  in  heaven,  or  hell,  to  see 
it  blotted  with  another  great  stain  of  blood.  But  I 
fear  it  will  come.  I  fear  we  will  never  go,  in  our 
millions.  I  fear  they  will  one  day  wipe  us  out.  Force, 
insolence,  intolerance  will  grow  as  the  lines  of  caste 
become  deeper.  I  am  all  American.  I  love  her  well 
enough  to  go — well  enough  to  take  every  one  of  us 
I  can  away!" 

"  Is  it  really  so  bad  as  that  ?"  said  Roger. 

"  What  else  can  we  think  ?"  his  friend  replied. 
"  The  problem  is  there  for  solution.  If  we  leave — 
all  of  us,  certainly  the  thing  is  settled.  What  else  can 
solve  a  question  so  profound?  Religious  training,  to 
make  us  more  amenable  to  regulations?  No,  I  think 
not, — not  while  the  conflict  between  morals  and  re- 
ligion continues.  We  are  already  fanatically  relig- 

316 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    A    RACE 

ious.  Book-education  ?  No.  It  could  never  be  given, 
in  the  first  place;  it  would  utterly  unfit  us  in  the  sec- 
ond. Industrial  training?  Not  while  we  multiply  and 
caste  makes  assimilation  out  of  the  question  and  a 
republic  no  longer  possible.  If  we  are  worth  the  price 
of  education,  if  we  can  rise  to  greatness,  we  are  great 
enough  to  found  an  empire  of  our  own." 


317 


XI 

A    BELATED   DISCOVERY 


THE  morning  of  the  last  day  out,  after  the  steamer 
had  indulged  herself  in  rolling,  like  a  horse  turned  out 
to  pasture,  a  man  appeared  who  had  hardly  stepped 
upon  the  deck  a  half-dozen  times.  He  was  staggering 
weakly  from  the  cabin-door  to  a  chair  when  Gordon 
took  him  by  the  arm  impulsively  and  lent  him  his 
strength. 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  you  before,"  said  the 
man,  when  he  had  spoken  his  thanks  and  taken  time 
to  look  at  Gordon's  face.  "  Are  you  not  the  gentleman 
who  gave  a  recital  in  London,  a  few  months  ago, — 
your  own  composition, — '  Paradise  Lost'  ?  Herr  Co- 
manche, — isn't  that  the  name?" 

Roger  bowed  slightly.  "  My  professional  name," 
he  admitted.  "  Are  you  comfortable  now  ?  Do  you 
think  you'll  be  warm  enough,  wrapped  like  that?" 

"  Thank  you,  yes,"  said  the  stranger.  "  My  name 
is  Pallingham.  I  was  there  that  night.  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  you  better." 

Gordon  thanked  him  and  shook  the  hand  the  man 
presented.  The  captain  and  a  number  of  women  came 
bearing  down  on  the  invalid,  wherefore  Roger  said 
perhaps  they  should  meet  again,  and  moved  away. 

318 


A    BELATED    DISCOVERY 


The  man  to  whom  he  had  rendered  the  merest  little 
service  proved  to  be  a  personage  of  some  social  im- 
portance. His  title  was  the  veriest  sugar  to  catch  the 
human  flies  aboard  the  vessel.  And  when  these  busy 
creatures  had  buzzed  about  the  liner,  from  stem  to 
stern,  the  all-unconscious  Gordon  had  suddenly  be- 
come someone  whom  all  were  sorry  they  had  failed 
to  discover  sooner. 

However,  it  was  not  absolutely  too  late  even  yet. 
The  news  went  around  that  the  concert  that  evening 
would  be  the  finest  of  the  voyage.  That  handsome, 
dark  young  gentleman  was  Herr  Comanche,  the  com- 
poser of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  perhaps  he  would 
play. 

Good-natured  always,  and  never  resentful,  Roger 
consented  to  bring  forth  his  violin  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  his  fellow-passengers. 

He  played  that  evening,  as  he  always  played,  these 
days  since  his  life  had  been  made  happy,  a  theme  that 
addressed  itself  to  Genevra.  Far  away,  over  the  heads 
of  all  his  listeners,  he  gazed,  back  across  all  those 
thousands  of  miles  of  restless  water,  till  Genevra's 
slumbrous  eyes,  so  lustrous  with  her  maidenly  passion, 
greeted  his  message  of  devotion.  What  he  played  was 
new,  though  it  told  such  an  ancient  story.  Beautiful, 
vanishing  forever  into  the  air,  and  trailing  away  on  the 
wake  of  the  ship,  it  weaved  its  spell  on  his  hearers  with 


THE    INEVITABLE 


that  strange  subtle  art  which  characterized  all  that 
he  did. 

He  played  again,  and  yet  again,  before  his  fellow- 
passengers  could  let  him  go.  He  recognized  the  music- 
greed,  and  smiled  to  himself  to  see  it  level  the  high- 
held  heads  and  sweep  away  the  looks  of  social  superi- 
ority. 

But  when  he  escaped,  which  he  managed  adroitly, 
he  was  not  to  be  found  for  belated  conversations.  And 
when  the  liner  reached  her  wharf,  on  the  following 
morning,  Roger  was  glad  that  Herr  Comanche  had 
been  spared  an  earlier  discovery. 

After  New  York  City  had  swallowed  the  handful 
of  persons  with  whom  he  had  travelled,  Gordon  real- 
ized that  he  would  probably  never  see  so  much  as  one 
of  all  those  passengers  again,  unless  it  might  be  Jef- 
ferson. 


320 


XII 

A    LONG    SEARCH 


THE  problem  of  finding  Sunshine  Gordon  some- 
where in  America  had  not  presented  itself  to  Roger 
in  a  concrete  form  on  his  way  across  the  Atlantic. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  until  after  his  interview  with  Bil- 
lings &  Strong  that  he  realized  fully  the  possibilities 
of  labor  in  such  a  search. 

It  was  months  since  the  lawyers  had  been  honored 
by  the  final  visit  of  Bertha  Chichester  to  their  pre- 
cincts. They  were  not  aware  of  her  present  where- 
abouts ;  they  doubted  whether  she  still  resided  in  New 
York  City.  Of  her  daughter  they  knew  but  little. 
They  had  made  but  one  effort  to  find  the  mother,  whom 
Billings  had  thought  might  be  paid  to  furnish  some 
manner  of  information  concerning  George  Gordon,  but 
this  had  been  unsuccessful. 

They  were  able  to  acquaint  Roger  with  details  of 
Bertha's  effort  to  secure  the  inheritance,  a  bit  of  in- 
formation which  Strong  made  as  vivid  as  it  was  con- 
cise. He  then  advised  the  employment  of  a  private 
detective  to  conduct  the  search  for  Gordon's  sister. 

"  I  shall  look  around  a  little  by  myself,"  said  Roger, 
"  and  doubtless  I  shall  get  such  a  man  as  you  men- 
tion as  well." 

21  321 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Confronted  by  the  necessity  for  planning  some  man- 
ner of  campaign,  he  soon  began  to  realize  the  largeness 
of  his  task.  It  was  something  to  go  on,  however,  he 
thought,  that  Bertha  Chichester  had  once  called  on  the 
lawyers.  At  least,  it  argued  that  she  had  been  in  the 
city  of  New  York.  But  then,  it  was  not  Bertha  Chi- 
chester that  he  wished  to  find.  Indeed,  the  thought 
of  meeting  her  gave  him  anything  but  pleasure. 

She  had  not,  so  far  as  his  father  had  been  able  to 
tell  him,  abandoned  Sunshine,  as  she  had  himself; 
nevertheless,  it  was  so  long  since  George  Gordon  had 
received  any  word  of  the  two  that  almost  anything 
could  have  happened  since  that  time.  The  two  might 
not  be  found  together.  However,  he  could  not  afford 
to  ignore  any  chances  which  might  lead  to  a  rapid 
termination  of  the  task  he  had  come  so  far  to  per- 
form. 

Thinking  out  the  features  of  the  case,  he  compre- 
hended another  possibility  which  might  not  tend  to 
simplify  his  labors.  Sunshine  might  have  any  one  of 
several  names.  He  hardly  thought  it  probable,  still 
she  might  have  been  reared  as  Sunshine  Gordon.  It 
was  far  more  likely,  he  thought,  that  her  name  was 
Sunshine  Chichester.  Yet,  again,  it  was  possible  she 
might  have  been  married.  And  if  married,  she  might 
not  reside  in  New  York  City,  nor  even  in  New  York 
State. 

322 


A   LONG    SEARCH 


He  copied  down  the  names  and  addresses  of  all  the 
Gordons  and  Chichesters  to  be  found  in  the  city  direc- 
tory. He  rented  apartments  in  a  private  dwelling. 
The  work  commenced. 

The  weather  was  frequently  forbidding,  for  the  win- 
ter seemed  to  have  decided  on  an  early  visit.  On  days 
when  the  rain  was  driven  by  the  wind  he  remained  in- 
doors. During  weeks  that  were  fine,  however,  he 
tramped  patiently  from  one  address  to  another,  till  the 
Gordons,  first,  and  then  the  Chichesters  written  on 
his  list  were  nearly  exhausted. 

He  discovered  then  he  had  used  an  old  directory. 
Securing  a  newer  edition,  he  discovered  several  new 
addresses.  It  was  thus  that  he  came  at  length  to  that 
house  wherein  the  Chichesters  had  given  their  daugh- 
ter a  wedding  reception. 

"  They  ain't  no  Chichesters  here,"  said  the  hall-man, 
with  asperity,  when  Roger  once  more  put  his  question. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Gordon.  "  I  doubtless  made  a 
mistake  in  copying  down  the  number." 

"  No,  you  didn't  make  no  mistake,"  corrected  the 
man,  less  savagely.  "  They  lived  here  once,  but  they 
never  paid  no  rent,  and  Mr.  Chichester  kicked  the 
bucket  and  the  woman  got  the  bounce." 

Roger  was  out  of  touch  with  this  vernacular.  "  Do 
you  mean,"  he  asked,  "  that  Mr.  Chichester  died,  and 
Mrs.  Chichester  moved  elsewhere?" 

323 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  You  guessed  it  right  the  first  crack,"  said  the 
man. 

The  fellow  could  not  supply  the  particulars.  That 
Chichester  had  gone  in  an  apoplectic  trance,  induced 
by  gulping  his  claret  to  stifle  a  particularly  aggravating 
outburst  of  dyspepsia,  could  have  made  no  material 
difference  in  Gordon's  self-appointed  task.  However, 
Roger  made  innumerable  inquiries  of  the  hall-man, 
through  none  of  which  could  he  manage  to  secure  a 
clue.  Mrs.  Chichester,  when  departing,  had  failed  to 
furnish  an  address. 

Roger  was  discouraged.  He  had  begun  to  realize 
early  that  the  month  he  had  given  himself  in  which 
to  come,  do  his  work,  and  return  would  not  suffice.  He 
was  obliged  to  confess,  in  his  letters  to  Genevra,  that 
he  might  be  obliged  to  remain  at  least  four  weeks 
where  he  was,  which  would  make  their  separation  at 
least  of  six  or  seven  weeks'  duration. 

To  add  to  the  difficulties  of  his  work  in  finding  his 
sister,  Billings  &  Strong  required  a  great  amount  of 
his  time  in  the  adjustment  of  his  business  of  inherit- 
ance. 

He  thought  of  Brooklyn  as  a  portion  of  New  York 
City  which  he  had  heretofore  overlooked.  Without 
affecting  a  change  of  head-quarters,  to  which  Genevra's 
letters  came  with  such  an  encouraging  regularity,  he 
went  to  work  as  he  had  done  in  the  larger  city,  in 

324 


A    LONG    SEARCH 


that  vast  field  of  houses  across  the  river.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  he  finally  engaged  a  private  detective 
to  aid  in  the  task.  Day  after  day,  however,  the  man 
reported  no  results. 

November  was  gone,  December  was  going.  He 
could  write  no  hopes  of  success.  His  time  had  been 
spent  for  nothing.  A  restlessness  grew  upon  him. 
The  weather  drove  him  to  shelter  frequently;  the 
hours  thus  hung  heavily  on  his  hands  for  days  at  a 
time.  He  thought  of  advertising  in  the  papers  for 
his  sister.  A  personal  notice  was  therefore  inserted 
in  several  morning  journals,  but  he  waited  in  vain  to 
receive  a  reply. 

A  relaxation  became  a  necessity.  Nervous  over  this 
maddening  wait,  so  futile  in  every  particular,  he  at- 
tended theatres  and  concerts  night  after  night  alone, 
and  walked  by  the  hour  along  the  brilliantly  lighted 
streets. 

He  found  himself  fascinated  by  the  hundreds  of 
negro,  mulatto,  and  quadroon  inhabitants  who  made 
of  Sixth  Avenue,  from  Thirty-fourth  Street  to  Twenty- 
fifth  Street,  an  African  boulevard. 

He  found  scores  of  these  persons,  male  and  female, 
whiter  than  himself;  he  recognized  the  brutal  truth 
which  Jefferson  had  spoken,  "  Part  negro,  all  negro, 
in  America." 

This  thing,  together  with  his  apparently  never-to- 
325 


THE    INEVITABLE 


be-finished  task,  oppressed  him.  He  had  been  away 
from  England  more  than  seven  weeks  already.  Ge- 
nevra  was  begging  him  in  every  letter  to  give  it  all 
over  and  return.  "  I  am  not  very  well,"  she  wrote  in 
one  epistle.  "  What  a  dreadful  distance  it  seems  be- 
tween us  now."  He  feared  she  was  dangerously  ill. 
He  almost  dreaded  to  remain  longer  away.  He  sick- 
ened at  the  thought  of  how  he  was  tempting  the  fates. 
In  despair  he  ran  his  advertisement  for  "  Sunshine 
Gordon,  or  Sunshine  Chichester"  daily  for  more  than 
a  week.  He  felt  he  had  then  exhausted  all  his  re- 
sources. He  would  give  the  affair  just  one  week  more. 
If  nothing  promised  success  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
he  would  place  the  matter  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
some  trustworthy  detective  agency  and  sail  again  for 
England. 


3*6 


XIII 

THE    REWARD    OF   A   SEARCH 


AMERICA'S  greatest  metropolis,  at  the  time  of  Gor- 
don's visit,  was  teaching  reformers  to  reform  their 
methods.  The  arch-fanatic,  in  introducing  violent  dis- 
ruptions of  the  scheme  of  metropolitan  life,  had  lived 
to  have  his  day  and  to  witness  somewhat  of  the  hor- 
rors that  followed.  With  moral  powder  he  had 
wrought  his  havoc  in  the  meeting-place  of  vice  and 
human  nature. 

Explosions,  however,  cannot  destroy  matter.  They 
merely  scatter  it  widely.  New  York  was  a  field  sown 
broadcast  with  all  the  vicious  fragments  of  what  had 
been  before  the  vicious  mass  of  things  deplorable.  The 
streets  were  littered  at  night  with  these  garish  bits  of 
tinsel  and  paint. 

No  man,  howsoever  impeccable  his  conduct  or 
thought,  could  always  be  certain  of  escaping,  unac- 
costed,  from  a  stroll  in  attractive  thoroughfares. 

Gordon  had  found  himself  submitted  to  this  experi- 
ence soon  after  coming  to  New  York  City.  He  had 
grown  to  know  the  signs  whereby  the  birds-of-night 
advertise  their  plumage. 

More  restless  than  before,  now  that  at  last  he  had 
fully  decided  to  admit  himself  defeated  and  flee  back 

327 


THE    INEVITABLE 


to  Genevra,  he  paced  his  room  or  the  streets  till  he 
often  found  himself  exhausted.  After  a  day  of  snow 
and  frost,  one  of  those  final  nights,  which  he  was  count- 
ing before  he  should  turn  his  face  to  the  East  again, 
was  clear  and  sharp.  The  hour  was  late,  but  heedless 
alike  of  that  and  the  cold,  he  strode  past  the  glittering 
shop-windows,  decked  already  for  the  holidays,  past 
the  thinned-out  stream  of  pedestrians,  and  past  the 
intersecting  streets,  to  the  jangle  of  bells  on  the  Broad- 
way cars,  and  so  came  at  last  to  Herald  Square. 

Above  him  the  elevated  trains  rushed  by  like  noisy 
comets,  their  vaporous  tails  of  steam  swirling  down 
to  the  side-walks  in  great  white  billows.  When  he 
turned,  he  walked  back,  by  way  of  Sixth  Avenue.  He 
found  it  less  thickly  populated  to-night,  less  brilliantly 
lighted  than  the  busier  Broadway. 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  nevertheless  the  man  presently 
halted  at  the  sound  of  music  that  came  in  squalls  of 
melody  from  one  of  the  side  streets,  at  the  corner  of 
which  a  heap  of  dirty  snow  was  piled.  The  wind  was 
tossing  the  rollicking  ditty  from  violins,  banjos,  and 
guitars.  There  was  something  barbarously  catching  in 
the  tune  and  the  lively  manner  of  its  execution. 

Another  strong  breath  of  the  harmony  came  on  the 
breeze.  Gordon  turned,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
walked  down  the  darker  street,  in  the  direction  whence 
the  kindling  sounds  proceeded.  The  theme  was  a  mad- 

328 


THE    REWARD    OF    A    SEARCH 

dening  invitation  to  dance.  Involuntarily  Roger  was 
stepping  to  the  time  as  he  walked  along,  and  swaying 
his  head  to  the  rhythm.  He  paused  at  length  before  a 
house,  through  an  uncurtained  window  of  which  he 
could  see  a  large  number  of  negroes  dancing. 

He  stood  there  on  the  curb,  unconsciously  clicking 
his  heels  on  a  bit  of  ice.  His  eyes  were  lighted  with 
pleasure,  ungovernable  when  music  called  with  a  beat 
in  such  frolicsome  measure. 

While  this  momentary  spell  was  at  its  height,  and 
Gordon  stood  there  absorbed,  a  young  woman,  slender 
and  cold-looking,  passed  him  by,  casting  a  glance  half- 
heartedly at  his  face  as  she  went.  She  presently 
paused,  looked  at  him  timidly  again,  went  on  a  trifle 
farther,  and  paused  again.  Her  face  was  pretty,  but 
a  look  of  alarm  was  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  feared  her- 
self. 

As  Gordon  made  no  sign  that  he  saw  her  at  all, 
she  moved  ahead,  casting  a  backward  glance  twice  of 
thrice,  till  at  length  she  came  to  a  shadow,  where  she 
once  more  hesitated. 

Roger  had  not  particularly  noticed  her,  so  preoccu- 
pied had  the  music  made  his  senses.  Up  the  walk  came 
another,  a  brisker  young  woman,  however,  who  was 
not  to  be  readily  ignored.  She  walked  nearly  under 
Gordon's  chin. 

"Hello,  darling!"    she  said. 
329 


THE    INEVITABLE 


He  cast  a  single  look  in  her  face.  Almost  falling, 
as  he  took  a  backward  step  from  the  height  of  the  curb 
to  the  street,  he  turned  away  abruptly. 

"  Say,  lovey,"  began  the  girl,  but  he  heard  no 
more. 

He  left  her  swiftly  behind  as  he  beat  a  retreat  across 
the  way,  and  down  on  the  farther  sidewalk,  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  she  was  strolling. 
He  hastened  onward,  till  the  shadow  of  a  darkened 
building  shielded  him  from  view,  and  there  he  halted. 

"  It  served  me  right,"  he  muttered.  "  I  ought  to 
be  at  home." 

He  saw  that  bolder  young  woman  go  on  towards 
Sixth  Avenue,  and  beheld  her  stop,  to  address  a  word 
to  that  other,  more  timid  one,  who  had  paused  at  the 
end  of  the  block.  The  one  thus  accosted  came  a  little 
forward  and  appeared  reluctantly  to  receive  something 
which  the  other  young  woman  tendered.  A  moment 
later  she  crossed  the  street,  to  the  side  whereon  Gordon 
was  standing,  and  slowly  came  back  alone. 

He  waited,  aware  he  would  not  be  seen  in  the  mask 
of  gloom  to  which  he  had  fled.  He  watched  the  girl, 
who  came  towards  him,  as  if  uncertainly.  He  noted 
how  slender  and  supple  was  her  figure,  how  well  she 
carried  her  head.  She  passed  beneath  the  light  of  a 
lamp,  and  even  at  the  distance  he  could  see  that  her 
face  was  sad.  He  also  saw  that  she  shivered  with  the 

330 


THE    REWARD    OF   A    SEARCH 

cold.  Her  face  was  delicate,  refined;  above  all,  it 
was  wistful.  He  observed  her  brush  a  tear  from  her 
cheek  and  compress  her  lips  together  as  she  neared  a 
second  street-lamp,  flickering  in  the  breeze. 

Nearly  in  front  of  where  he  stood  she  came  to  a 
halt  and  looked  at  something  which  she  held  in  her 
hand.  Gordon  could  see  her  features  plainly.  He  felt 
himself  unaccountably  affected  by  her  evident  distress. 
She  raised  her  hand  to  her  cheek,  in  a  gesture  of  resig- 
nation and  despair.  She  shivered  again,  and,  looking 
at  what  she  held  in  her  fingers,  permitted  the  object  to 
fall  to  the  ground.  Gordon  saw  that  it  was  money, — 
a  paper  bill. 

The  girl  wrung  her  hands,  as  a  child  might  have 
done,  looking  at  the  bill  where  it  lay  on  the  snow.  A 
moan  escaped  from  her  lips.  She  moved  away,  leaving 
the  money.  Gordon  made  a  trifling  noise.  She  started, 
like  a  doe  discovered  in  the  open.  He  came  from  the 
shadow  towards  her,  as  one  in  a  dream. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  trouble,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
so  husky  that  it  sounded  strange  to  himself.  "  You — 
have  dropped  your  money." 

The  girl  glanced  timidly  up  in  his  face  for  a  second, 
a  dumb  light  of  fear  and  dread  in  her  eyes.  He  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  light.  She  was  not  aware  that 
his  skin  was  dark. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook 
33i 


THE    INEVITABLE 


with  her  trembling.     "  Please — I  don't  wish  to  stay 
here.     I'd  rather  go — alone." 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  wish  to  detain  you,"  said' 
Gordon.  "  But  you  seem — so  young.  I  saw  you — 
saw  that  other  one — give  you  the  money,  and  you  must 
need  it — need  money.  It  seems  such  a  pity.  You  don't 
seem  quite  like It  seems  too  bad." 

She  looked  once  more  in  his  face,  as  if  she  yearned 
for  sympathy,  yearned  for  some  one  to  trust.  Then 
her  head  came  forward  and  hung  till  he  could  no  longer 
see  her  face,  and  she  cried,  inaudibly.  "  Please — don't 
stop — me,"  she  finally  managed  to  say.  "  I  don't — 
want  that — kind  of  money.  I — didn't  wish — to  take 
it.  She  tried — to  be  kind.  I  would  rather — go." 

"  God  help  you,  I  am  glad  you  wish  to  go,"  he  said. 
"  But  there  is  other  money, — something  might  be  done. 
Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  telling  me  where  you  are 
going — where " 

"  I  am  going — to  the — river,"  she  answered  him, 
brokenly.  "  I'd  rather — I'd  rather.  Oh,  why  do  you 
stop  to  speak — to  me?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Roger  said.  "  It  seems — too  bad, 
that's  all.  But — don't  go  to  the  river.  You  must  have 
a  mother  to  go  to." 

"  A  mother  ?"  said  the  girl,  suddenly,  in  a  strange 
mood.  She  made  a  sound  of  laughing.  "  I  had  one — 
a  pretty  little  mother,  but  she — and  all  the  others — left 

332 


THE    REWARD    OF    A    SEARCH 

me  to  go, — they  made  me  go — and  it  wasn't  my  fault — 
oh,  it  wasn't !  it  wasn't !  It  had  to  be  his !  It  had  to ! 
And  then  it  died — and  I  was  all  alone." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Gordon  told  her, 
awed  by  this  half-told  story.  "  Your  mother,  every- 
body, left  you  to  go?  What  was  it  that  wasn't  your 
fault?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?"  she  answered,  in  a  mood 
of  pride,  not  yet  all  eliminated  from  her  spirit.  "  I 
didn't  want  to  tell  you  that.  I  don't  want  to  tell — any 
more.  I'll  go — I  wish  to  go.  I  don't  know  who  you 
are.  I'd  rather  go." 

Another  gust  of  that  music  from  up  the  street  came 
rippling  on  the  wind.  But  Gordon  failed  to  hear  it 
now. 

"  You  needn't  tell,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  why  I 
asked.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  don't  know  why  I  stay. 
I'm  sorry,  though.  You  needn't  tell." 

The  girl  began  again  to  cry.  Her  heart  was  break- 
ing to  tell  its  story. 

"  My  husband,"  she  faltered,  "  said — my  baby — 
wasn't  his, — but  it  was — it  was !  And  they  turned  me 
out — he  drove  me  away — and  I  nearly  starved.  I 
tried  to  get  some  work — oh,  you  don't  know  how  hard 
— I  fainted  on  the  street — and  a  woman  took  me  in. 
She  wasn't  good,  but  she  was  kind,  the  only  kind  per- 
son of  them  all,  and  she  got  me  well — and  then — I  was 

333 


THE    INEVITABLE 


there  in  her  house.  I  couldn't  help  myself, — I  couldn't 
go  anywhere  else, — no  one  would  believe  me.  But  I 
have  never  been — out  like  this  before,  and  I  can't — I 
can't — I  would  rather  die!  They  drove  me  out — they 
made  me  do  it  all — and  I'd  rather  go  to  the  river." 
She  sobbed  convulsively,  but  her  sobbing  still  made  no 
sound. 

Roger  was  frightened  at  all  she  had  said,  in  some 
vague,  indefinable  way.  He  had  spoken  to  her ;  he  had 
remained  there  against  his  will.  He  could  not  seem 
to  leave  her  and  go  on  his  own  way. 

"  But  you  don't  have  to  go  to  the  river,"  he  told  her 
now.  "  I  wouldn't  do  that.  I'll  lend  you  some  money, 
if  that  will  help  you  to  try  again.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  will." 

"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  if  you  knew — what  it  was," 
she  said,  wistfully.  "  But  it  wasn't  my  fault.  I  was 
good,  and  my  poor  little  baby  was  his.  It  had  to  be 
his!  But  something — terrible — was  the  matter." 

"  What  was  the  matter?"  he  asked  her,  simply. 

"  My  baby  was  black,"  she  answered,  obediently. 

"  Black !"  He  put  his  hand  to  his  cheek  as  he  echoed 
the  word. 

"  But  it  wasn't  my  fault,"  she  reiterated,  wildly ; 
"  it  wasn't !  oh,  it  wasn't !  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve me.  I  knew  you  couldn't !  Nobody  ever  believes 
me, — not  even  mamma — my  mother.  They  called  it 

334 


THE    REWARD    OF    A    SEARCH 

a  nigger.  He  made  me  take  it  and  go  away, — they 
made  me  go.  And  I  knew  you  wouldn't  believe  me. 
So  now  I  can  go."  She  looked  in  his  face  as  a  child 
might  have  done,  a  serious  little  pucker  between  her 
eyes. 

He  could  make  no  reply  for  the  moment. 

"  But  I  would  like  to  say — thank  you,"  she  faltered. 
"  I'd  like  to  say — good-by  to — to  somebody — nice.  I 
wanted  somebody  to  know — I  tried — I  really  tried — to 
be  good.  Good-by." 

"  Wait,"  said  Roger,  huskily.  "  Don't  go— yet.  I 
do  believe  you  tell  the  truth.  Tell  me,  what  was  your 
husband's  name?" 

"  I  don't — wish  to  tell,"  she  answered. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  Do  you 
think  he  might  have  had  any  colored  blood  in  h'is 
veins  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no,  he  hadn't.    That's  why  he  made  me  go." 

"  Then  it  might  have  come  down  through  your 
parents,"  he  said,  speaking  in  feverish  haste,  and  as  if 
to  himself.  "  Will  you  tell  me  your  father's  name?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly.  "  Why  should  I  ? 
I  would  rather  not?" 

"  Nor  your  mother's  ?" 

"  Poor  pretty  little  mother,"  she  answered,  and  she 
shook  her  head. 

.335 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Gordon  was  suppressing  a  most  intense  excitement, 
amounting  to  agony. 

"  Then,  of  course,  it  is  of  no  use  to  ask  your  own," 
he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  My  name  is  so  cheerful,"  she  said,  a  little  archly. 
"  It  is  Sunshine." 

"  Sunshine !"  he  cried  out.  "  Oh,  no !  no !  no !  not 
that!  not  that! — not  with  all  this  story!  Oh,  no! 
no!  no! — not  Sunshine  Gordon! — no! — no,  no,  no, — 

I  couldn't  bear But  it  is — it  had  to  be — it  had 

to  be  Sunshine  Gordon.     Oh,  why — oh,  why " 

"  Why,  what  is  the  name  to  you  ?"  she  asked,  in 
affright  at  his  anguish.  "  Of  course  I  am  not  Sunshine 
Gordon.  I  don't  understand." 

Roger  looked  at  her  hazily.  With  his  hand  to  his 
cheek  he  weaved  back  and  forth,  as  if  in  pain.  "  Sun- 
shine— Chichester,  then,"  he  said,  patiently. 

She  sounded  a  little  cry.  "  But  who  are  you — what 
do  you  mean?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

A  burst  of  that  soulless  music  came  dancing  joyously 
on  the  wind. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said  resignedly,  "  that  I  know  you 
better  than  you  know  yourself.  Your  mother  was 
Bertha  Neuville;  your  father  was  George  Gordon — 
quadroon.  Your  baby  was  black  for  the  very  same 
reason  that  I  am  black, — because  of  the  blackness  in 
the  blood." 

336 


THE    REWARD    OF    A    SEARCH 

"  I — can't  believe  it,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  at  him 
wildly.  "  How  could  you  know  ?  Tell  me  who  you 
are." 

He  heard  nothing  distinctly. 

"  Put  your  hand  on  my  arm,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  and 
let  us  go.  I  came  to  find  you." 

"  But  I  can't.  You  must  tell  me  who  you  are,"  she 
repeated,  drawing  away  in  alarm  and  awe. 

"  I  am  your  brother,"  he  said.  "  Come,  Sunshine, 
you  are  trembling  with  the  cold." 


22  337 


XIV 

CAUSE  AND  EFFECT  COME  FACE  TO  FACE 

WHEN  the  morning  broke  Gordon  was  sitting  at  a 
desk  in  his  room,  gazing  vacantly  at  a  letter  he  had 
written  to  Genevra.  He  had  also  telegraphed  to  Doctor 
Pingle  to  bring  Teresa  to  care  for  his  sister.  His  head 
was  still  troubled  with  schemes  for  Sunshine's  life  and 
future. 

His  lips  were  drawn  and  thin;  his  features  were 
retaining,  for  a  long  time,  that  rechiselled  appearance 
that  came  to  them  now  and  again,  but  seldom  with  such 
a  look  of  chill  as  now. 

At  last  he  arose  from  the  chair  and  paced  the  room. 
Reaction  broke  in  upon  him  abruptly.  He  burst  into 
laughter,  fearful  to  hear.  Peal  after  peal  rang  out, 
mockingly.  His  muscular  frame  was  shaken  in  a  long 
succession  of  shivers.  The  sound,  when  it  ended,  went 
like  the  chatter  of  despair. 

In  silence  again  he  continued  his  pacing  up  and  down 
the  floor.  His  gaze  wandered  blankly  from  one  dull 
object  to  another  in  the  place.  The  room  was  cold, 
but  he  felt  nothing.  The  world  was  stirring  again  out- 
side, its  roar  increasing  steadily ;  he  heard  no  sounds. 
He  paced  up  and  down  till  the  hour  for  breakfast  came 
and  went;  he  knew  no  hunger. 

338 


CAUSE    AND    EFFECT 


How  long  he  had  walked  he  could  never  have  told. 
How  long  he  might  have  continued  so  to  stride  up  and 
down  could  not  have  been  determined.  His  state  of 
mind  was  invaded  at  last  when  for  the  third  time  a 
loud  knock  was  repeated  on  his  door. 

When  he  swung  the  barrier  open  he  found  himself 
confronted  as  if  by  a  picture.  The  hall  was  slightly 
dark.  Projected  on  its  dim,  uncertain  wall,  and  framed 
about  by  the  lintels,  was  a  daintily  pretty  woman,  petite 
and  smiling.  She  had  soft,  silvery  masses  of  hair 
about  a  round,  animated  face.  Her  laughing  eyes  were 
of  the  deepest  violet  blue. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said,  in  a  bright,  winsome 
voice.  "  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  and  she  came  in 
the  room.  "  You  must  be — you  are  Mr.  Gordon." 

"  My  name  is  Gordon,"  Roger  replied,  a  puzzled 
expression  on  his  face.  "  But  I  fear  I  do  not " 

"  Oh,  dear,  don't  you  know  me  ?"  cried  the  lady, 
laughing  in  the  mellowest  of  voices.  "  Oh,  how  very 
ungrateful  not  to  guess  how  you  came  to  be  so  hand- 
some— for  you  are — oh,  you  are.  I  think  you  are 
charming.  I  am  ever  so  proud  of  you,  really."  She 
held  out  her  hand  engagingly. 

Gordon  intended  no  slight,  but  he  failed  to  see  her 
hand.  His  eyes  could  not  apparently  leave  her  face. 

"  Oh,  you  naughty,  handsome  boy,"  she  pouted. 
"  You've  got  to  know  your  own  little  mamma." 

339 


THE    INEVITABLE 


He  started.  He  winked  his  eyes  rapidly.  He  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,"  he  finally  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "  I  know 
you  now.  I  remember  the  mocking  face,  and  the  laugh, 
without  any  laugh  inside.  I  wonder  what  you  want." 

"  What  do  I  want?"  echoed  Bertha,  slightly  shrink- 
ing back  from  his  cold,  hard  gaze,  but  laughing  ner- 
vously. "  Oh,  Roger,  you  mean,  mean  boy,  to  treat 
your  poor  little  mother  like  that,  when  she  comes  to 
see  you  so  sweetly,  and  wants  to  love  you  so  dearly." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  out  of  his  deep-set  eyes. 
His  gaze  seemed  to  pierce  her  through.  She  felt  a 
horrible  sense  of  discomfort.  He  seemed  about  to 
speak  several  times.  And  then  he  merely  uttered  the 
one  word, — 

"You!" 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  boy,"  she  pouted,  complainingly, 
masking  as  best  she  could  the  fear  he  compelled  in  her 
breast.  "  To  think  of  my  own  dear  boy  talking  like 
that  to  his  mother,  when  she  comes  so  early  in  the 
morning  and  tries  to  be  cheerful  and  pretty.  Oh,  I 
know  you  never  meant  to  be  so  cruel.  I  forgive  you, 
dear.  I  have  been  away  from  town,  but  I  came  to 
answer  your  advertisement — there.  So  you  couldn't 
help  loving  me — just  a  little." 

He  stared  at  her,  saying  nothing.  There  was  so 
much  that  he  wished  to  say  that  he  could  not  begin. 

340 


CAUSE    AND    EFFECT 


Where  the  tale  of  wrongs  commenced  was  so  far,  far 
back. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  tell  you  where  Sunshine  is  ?" 
she  asked,  weakly. 

"  I  found  her,  where  all  of  you  put  her, — on  the 
street,  last  night/'  he  said.  "  You  abandoned  me.  I 
could  almost  have  forgiven  you  that.  Perhaps  you 
did  me  a  kindness, — I  think  you  did.  But  to  let  that 
child  bear  all  that  infamy, — to  cast  her  out,  when  you 
knew  you  were  responsible  yourself  for  that  black  little 
face — that  you  were  the  one  that  married  negro  blood 
— oh,  that  was  a  monstrous  thing  to  do !  You  never 
told  her  she  had  a  right  to  have  a  black  little  baby. 
You  knew  it !  You  knew  it,  and  yet  you  shut  her  out, 
with  such  a  blot  of  shame  as  that,  to  bear  alone.  I 
thought  I  despised  you  for  myself,  for  what  you  did 
to  me !  O  God,  what  shall  I  say  to  this  woman  ?  You 
can  come  to  tell  me  where  she  is,  without  a  blush  of 
shame?" 

Bertha  suddenly  hated  as  much  as  she  feared  him. 
Her  face  was  no  longer  smiling.  Something  hideously 
malignant  burned  in  her  eyes.  "  What  do  you  mean 
by  this?"  she  demanded.  "How  dare  you  speak  to 
me  like  this  ?  What  you  say  is  all  a  lie — a  nasty  lie !' 

"  But  at  least  I  know  who  her  husband  was,"  he 
resumed,  unheeding  her  interruption.  "  I  can  let  him 
know  what  you  are.  I  can  tell  him  what  you  did.  He 

34i 


THE    INEVITABLE 


shall  know  you  were  married  to  a  quadroon.  He  shall 
realize  it  was  not  her  fault  that  her  child  was  black. 
But  neither  he  nor  you  shall  see  her  again.  Go  away 
— leave  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you.  I  might  have 
forgiven  for  myself.  I  have  hoped  that  I  could.  O 
God,  I  have  hoped  it  so!  But  you — you  pariah  of 
motherhood — you  soulless  creature — what  an  outcast 
you  are  from  all  chance  of  filial  affection !" 

"You  nigger!"  she  cried.  "You  nigger!  How 
dare  you!  Beast!  I  hate  you!  I  loathe  you — nig- 
ger !"  She  choked  with  impotent  rage. 

He  opened  the  door.  "  Go  away,"  he  said.  "  You 
have  made  some  mistake.  We  never  had  a  mother." 

She  could  not  remain  and  face  his  gaze.  She  was 
blazing  with  wrath,  as  she  backed  out  at  the  door.  But 
some  one  was  passing  in  the  hall, — a  man  who  roomed 
in  the  house.  She  looked  at  the  stranger,  smiling  at 
once.  "  I  must  really  be  going,"  she  said,  for  the  other 
man  to  hear.  "  By-by."  And  the  man  turned  to  see 
who  it  was  that  had  such  a  sweet,  mellow  voice. 


342 


XV 
NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND 


IT  had  been  a  something  akin  to  instinct  that 
prompted  Roger  to  send  for  Teresa  to  care  for  his 
sister.  He  had  thought  of  no  one  else;  there  was 
no  one  so  appropriate,  so  reliable,  so  certain  to  re- 
spond. He  knew  she  would  come. 

Without  procuring  a  breakfast  he  went  to  his  sister. 
Sunshine  had  read  the  paper  left  by  George  Gordon. 
She  knew  what  Roger  had  told  her  was  the  truth; 
she  was  only  too  well  convinced  of  who  and  what  she 
was.  She  accepted  it  all  in  patience  and  without  com- 
plaint, but  she  was  shrinkingly  ashamed  and  burning 
with  mortification  whenever  her  brother's  eyes  were 
directed  towards  her  face.  He  noted  this  presently, 
and  talked  with  his  gaze  averted. 

The  girl's  countenance  was  one  of  those  human  sor- 
row-coins, stamped  with  the  ineradicable  signs  which 
mental  and  physical  anguish  design.  Yet  its  girlish 
sweetness  and  innocence  were  still  in  a  manner  un- 
touched. Her  family  resemblance  to  Roger  was 
marked,  particularly  about  her  brow  and  the  contour 
of  her  cheek. 

Already  she  felt  for  him  all  that  sense  of  attachment 
which  protection  compels.  To  have  found  a  brother, 

343 


THE    INEVITABLE 


at  a  time  when  there  was  no  one — absolutely  no  one 
in  her  life  to  whom  to  turn,  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  awaken  her  child-like  affection,  but  Roger  had  been 
kind  before  he  knew.  Whenever  he  turned  his  serious, 
half-sad  eyes  away,  she  was  watching  him,  wistfully, 
earnestly,  with  that  odd  little  pucker  between  her 
brows. 

He  told  her  of  what  he  had  done  to  provide  her 
with  a  woman  companion,  and  explained  who  Teresa 
and  Doctor  Pingle  were.  Of  the  morning's  interview 
with  their  mother  he  said  nothing.  She  supplied  him 
with  Robert  Dunn's  address,  and  he  wrote  to  that  gen- 
tleman a  letter  of  explanation  to  account  for  all  that 
had  happened.  Sunshine  would  have  shrunk  from  this, 
but  she  thanked  him  and  knew  he  was  right. 

Doctor  Pingle  and  Teresa  could  not  arrive,  as  Gor- 
don knew,  before  two  days  or  more.  In  the  mean  time 
he  moved  to  a  small  hotel  and  secured  apartments  for 
Sunshine  and  Teresa,  as  well  as  a  room  for  himself 
and  another  for  Doctor  Pingle. 

On  the  following  day  a  telegram  arrived,  announcing 
that  the  two  were  half-way  there. 

That  same  afternoon  he  received  a  cable  from  Eng- 
land. 

"Health  not  good,"  it  read.  "We  sail  for  New 
York  to-day. — Genevra." 

He  held  the  paper  in  his  hand,  reading  it  time  after 
344 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND 


time.  At  length  a  peculiar  little  smile  appeared  on  his 
face.  He  folded  the  message  and  placed  it  in  his 
pocket. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait,  in  patience, 
for  his  friends  from  the  West  to  arrive.  When  the 
hour  was  come  he  went  to  the  station  alone.  They 
had  never  known  anything  about  his  sister;  he  much 
preferred  to  have  them  meet  her  more  quietly  than  was 
possible  at  the  train. 

He  was  walking  rapidly  towards  the  platform  at 
which  the  train  would  stop,  when  some  one  quietly 
grasped  his  arm.  He  turned  about  and  saw  his  fellow- 
ocean-traveller,  Jefferson,  walking  beside  him  and 
smiling  in  the  pleasure  of  the  meeting. 

"  Not  going  my  way  again  by  any  chance,  are  you, 
Mr.  Gordon?"  said  the  man. 

"  No,  only  to  meet  some  friends,"  answered  Roger. 
"  Where  are  you  bound  for  now  ?" 

"  New  Haven  and  Bridgeport,  only  for  one  or  two 
days,"  said  Jefferson.  "  I  am  winding  up  the  last  few 
details  of  the  business.  Our  ship  is  in  port,  getting 
ready.  She  sails  in  two  weeks  from  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  been  so  successful,"  said  Gor- 
don. He  spoke  clearly  enough,  but  his  thoughts  were 
wandering.  He  preferred,  for  some  reason  of  his  own, 
not  to  have  his  friend  Jefferson  see  him  meet  Teresa. 
"  I  wish  you  luck,"  he  added. 

345 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again,"  said  his  friend. 
"  If  not,  good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Roger,  and,  taking  the  hand  that 
Jefferson  extended,  he  hastened  on  to  where  a  train 
came  rolling  in  and  halted. 

He  saw  them  then  presently,  struggling  with  hand- 
baggage,  climbing  down  the  steps  of  the  car  and 
looking  about  them  in  that  way  of  new  arrivals,  con- 
fused and  uncertain  as  to  which  way  to  turn. 

"  Here  we  are,  Dosser,"  he  said,  as  he  came  upon 
them  before  they  had  even  so  much  as  looked  in  his 
direction.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you — you  and  Teresa." 

The  two  turned  at  once.  The  doctor  was  staring  at 
him  in  amazement  over  the  rims  of  his  glasses. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "Well!— well,  bless  my  soul! 
Well,  you — well,  I  declare,  you — big  fellow!  Well, 
God  bless  you,  laddie !  Is  it  really  you  ?" 

For  the  moment  Roger  was  a  boy  again.  He  held 
his  hat  in  his  hand  and  with  the  other  shook  the  doc- 
tor's hand  as  if  he  could  never  get  enough  of  that  good, 
warm  clasp.  He  looked  at  them  both,  one  after  an- 
other, as  he  tried  to  laugh  and  to  talk  and  to  hold 
his  emotions  all  in  check  at  once. 

Teresa  was  looking  at  him  shyly,  but  with  eyes  that 
burned.  Her  breath  came  fast ;  the  color  mounted  in 
her  cheeks.  She  had  grown  up  tall,  slender,  lady-like, 
and  attractive.  Her  face  was  not  so  dark  as  Roger's, 

346 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND 


but  her  features,  while  pleasant,  were  not  at  all  of  that 
classical  mould  which  had  been  a  characterization  of 
Gordon's  always.  She  had  steady  brown  eyes,  an  oval 
face,  abundant  black  hair  that  was  almost  straight, 
and  an  air  of  modesty  which  Roger  observed  with  a 
feeling  of  profound  relief  and  thankfulness. 

"  I  was  glad  to  come,  Mr.  Gordon,"  she  said,  timidly, 
as  she  placed  her  hand  in  Roger's  for  a  second ;  "  but 
I  didn't  realize  how  far  it  was." 

He  clutched  up  their  bags  and  bundles  as  they  talked 
of  these  nothings  of  greeting,  and  led  them  away  to 
a  carriage. 


347 


XVI 

THE    RIGHT   OF   LOVE 


DAYS  of  suspense,  like  those  of  suffering,  are  more 
than  twenty-four  hours  in  length.  The  knowledge  of 
this  was  not  at  all  new  to  Gordon.  Nevertheless,  the 
week  went  by,  and  the  steamer  with  Harberton  and 
Genevra  was  due  at  last. 

The  meeting  down  at  the  pier  afforded  a  happy 
little  moment  for  Genevra,  whom  sea-air  and  hope 
and  this  sight  of  Roger  had  restored  to  all  her 
health  and  brightness  and  life  once  more,  as  if  by 
magic. 

She  seemed  to  Roger  more  beautiful  than  ever.  The 
color  glowed  in  her  face  as  if  from  vestal-virgin  fires, 
made  rosier  by  the  consciousness  of  love.  Her  lus- 
trous, warm-gray  eyes  were  ablaze  with  joy.  Her 
nugget-gold  hair,  with  the  winter's  afternoon  sun  upon 
it,  seemed  but  the  halo  due  to  her  beauty.  Through 
her  red,  fresh  lips  her  little  hot  catches  of  breath 
fanned  swiftly.  She  had  never  seemed  so  happy,  so 
sure  of  love's  favor  as  now. 

Roger  looked  at  her  yearningly.  The  beat  of  his 
heart  had  quickened  when  she  put  her  two  little  hands 
in  his  and  cried  to  him  out  of  her  sweet  delight.  To 
Gordon  all  eternity  passed  while  he  lived  for  that 

348 


THE    RIGHT    OF    LOVE 


moment  of  looking  in  her  eyes,  where  love  was  so 
silently  eloquent. 

"  Roger,  I  believe  I  missed  you  more  than  Genevra 
did,  upon  my  word,"  said  Harberton,  candidly  glad  to 
see  him  again.  "  Now,  sir,  can  you  book  on  this 
steamer  back  to  England  again  with  us  when  she 
sails?" 

Gordon  came  back  to  realities  at  once.  He  made  a 
laughing  answer  that  was  apparently  a  natural  and  not 
an  intended  evasion  of  the  question. 

"  The  first  thing  to  do,"  he  added,  "  is  to  get  your 
luggage  under  way  to  the  hotel." 

He  therefore  left  them  for  the  moment,  and  hustling 
about,  with  his  unforgotten  American  celerity  of  move- 
ment and  resource,  at  length  returned  to  tell  them  that 
all  was  arranged. 

As  they  drove  away  from  the  landing,  Genevra's 
hand  fell  softly  down  on  Roger's  and  rested  there, 
content.  He  left  them,  when  they  were  finally  lodged, 
with  a  promise  to  Genevra  to  return  so  soon  as  he 
knew  she  had  taken  a  rest. 

"  If  you  don't  make  haste  coming  back,"  she  warned 
him,  "  the  rest  will  not  be  a  rest  at  all." 

"  I  shall  have  no  rest  myself  till  I  come,"  he  told 
her,  smiling  oddly,  but  it  was  long  after  dark  before  he 
turned  his  footsteps  towards  the  hotel  where  she 
waited. 

349 


THE    INEVITABLE 


The  night  was  cold  and  wet.  The  wind  blew  fit- 
fully. The  sky  was  sullenly  low  and  dark.  What 
rain  fell  froze  on  the  streets,  buildings,  and  sidewalks. 

Gordon,  as  he  walked,  seemed  insensible  to  the  cold. 
His  face  appeared  re-refined  by  the  chill  and  bite  in 
the  air. 

But  a  semitropical  warmth  and  fragrance  breathed 
from  the  parlor,  when  at  length  the  door  was  opened 
and  Genevra  stood  before  him,  her  eyes  ablaze  with 
welcome  and  love,  her  bosom  heaving  with  her  happi- 
ness and  deeply  stirred  emotions. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  had  stepped  a 
little  back,  to  let  him  enter.  Now  she  came  towards 
him  slowly,  prolonging  that  moment  more  of  separa- 
tion, a  happy  one  at  last.  But  her  love  had  leaped 
from  her  eyes,  unleashed,  and  she  followed  it  swiftly, 
running  to  his  arms  with  a  glad  little  cry  from  her 
beating  heart. 

"  Oh  dearest,  dearest,  dearest,"  she  crooned,  and, 
laughing  and  crying  together,  she  nestled  to  his  shoul- 
der and  patted  his  hands,  and  kissed  him  and  nestled 
again,  and  twined  her  arms  about  his  neck  to  draw 
his  cold  cheek  down  to  her  own  soft,  hot  one,  so  burn- 
ing for  caresses.  "  Oh,  dearest  love,"  she  sighed.  "  At 
last — at  last." 

Roger  could  not  speak  at  first.  Then  presently  he 
called  her  name,  over  and  over  again,  as  he  held  her 

350 


THE    RIGHT    OF    LOVE 


fast  in  his  arms  and  looked  in  her  eyes.  His  yearn- 
ing was  something  she  felt.  It  almost  awed  her.  It 
made  her  quiet.  It  made  her  take  his  face  in  her  hands 
and  kiss  him  fondly. 

"  It  is  I,  dear,"  she  whispered,  as  if  she  compre- 
hended something  in  his  mood.  "  All  yours — forever. 
Oh,  my  love,  my  dearest,  I  had  to  come.  I  couldn't 
endure  it  any  longer." 

Her  arms  crept  about  his  neck  once  more  and  she 
lay  close  to  his  heart,  her  joy  made  absolute  thus  to 
have  him  hold  her  fast. 

At  last  she  clasped  both  his  hands  in  hers  and,  hold- 
ing herself  away  the  length  of  her  arms,  gave  herself 
the  long,  long  look  for  which  she  had  so  hungered  and 
thirsted  since  their  parting.  And  still  Roger  could 
hardly  say  more  than  her  name. 

"  Oh,  dearest,  you  didn't  expect  me  to  come,"  she 
said.  "  But  I  wasn't  well,  really,  big  boy.  I  was  so 
lonesome — for  you.  And  papa  proposed  it,  bless  him ! 
so  we  came.  And  I  am  so  glad  we  did.  Dearest,  I 
was  so  afraid  something  might  happen.  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  you  are  glad  to  see  me,  dearest  boy,  as  I 
am  to  have  you  so  close  again." 

For  his  answer  he  held  her  once  more  to  his  heart 
and  kissed  her,  and  looked  in  her  eyes  with  a  yearning 
greater  than  infinity. 

"  Forgive  me  for  being  so  selfish,"  she  said  to  him 


THE    INEVITABLE 


then.  "  I  haven't  asked  you  anything  about  your  long, 
long  search.  Tell  me,  dear,  have  you  found  your  sister 
since  you  wrote  to  me  last?" 

The  moment  in  his  life  had  come. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  I  have  found  my  sister 
at  last.  But — it's  a  long — unhappy  story.  You  must 
sit  by  the  fire  and  let  me  tell  you.  It — is  hard  to 
tell." 

"  But,  Roger,  dear,"  she  said,  "  it  isn't  terrible  ?  Oh, 
nothing  has  happened,  that  you  smile  like  that  ?  Dear- 
est, you  are  glad  to  see  me?" — glad  I  came?" 

"  You  are  the  one  glimpse  of  heaven  I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  again,"  he  told  her,  simply. 

"  Roger !  Never  expected  to  see — me  again  ?"  she 
cried,  in  sudden  fear.  "  But,  dearest,  what  have  I 
done?" 

"  You,  precious  ?  Oh,  don't  say  such  a  thing  as  that. 
You  have  done  nothing — nothing  but  to  give  me  a 
happiness  too  great  to  last — and  a  hope  too  good  to  be 
true." 

"  But  tell  me — tell  me,"  she  said,  in  affright,  "  what 
does  it  mean  ?  Your  sister  isn't  dead  ?" 

"No— not  dead." 

"  Then  what  can  it  be  ?  Have  you  lost  your  fortune  ? 
Dearest,  what  do  we  care  for  that?  I  don't  mind  any 
sort  of  poverty — with  you." 

"  I  wish  it  were  that,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  the  for- 
352 


THE    RIGHT    OF    LOVE 


tune.  Oh,  if  it  had  only  been  that !  No,  it  is  far  more 
than  that  I  have  lost.  I  have  lost  the  right  to  make 
you  mine.  Not  the  right  to  love  you — no,  no— I  shall 
never  lose  that! — but  the  right  to  make  you  my  wife. 
That  has  gone — forever." 

"  Roger !"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean !  There  isn't  any  right  in  the  world  but  my  wish 
— my  love.  There  couldn't  be  anything  else  but  that ! 
Nothing — nobody  has  any  rights  for  us  but  you  and 
me!" 

"  Dearest,  wait,"  he  pleaded.  "  I  must  tell  you  all 
about  it, — how  I  found  my  sister  a  few  days  ago.  I 
wrote  you  a  letter,  but  it  couldn't  arrive  in  time.  I'll 
tell  you  everything,  and  then  you  will  know — I  have 
lost — my  right.  I  know  I  might  have  written  it  all 
again  to  you  here,  but  I  couldn't.  I  had  to  see  you 
this  one  time  more.  I  had  to  hear  your  voice.  I  had 
to  hold  you  in  my  arms — this  once.  I  had  to  tell  you 
I  love  you,  and  love  you — forever." 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  she  said,  in  a  new  terror  of  his 
stern,  set  face,  "  tell  me — what  it  means.  It's  a  terrible 
dream.  It  can't  be  true — when  we  love  each  other  so. 
Tell  me,  dearest,  you  are  joking?" 

"  Sit  here  and  let  me  kneel  beside  you  on  the  floor," 
he  said.  "  I  can  tell  you  better." 

He  dared  not  wait  to  let  her  speak  again.  He  told 
her,  swiftly,  plainly,  of  the  shame  which  had  come  to 
23  353 


THE    INEVITABLE 


his  sister — come  in  her  innocence — come  from  the 
thoughtlessness,  the  selfishness  of  one  vain  woman 
who  had  once  had  her  way. 

"  Genevra,"  he  said,  when  the  brief  history  was 
ended,  "  how  could  I  be  a  man  and  make  you  my  wife 
— after  this?  How  could  I  so  tarnish  you — taint  you 
— and  start  a  new  line  of  such  misery  and  crime  ?  No, 
no,  no, — I  couldn't — I  couldn't — not  while  I  love  you 
as  I  love  you  now !" 

"  But  oh,  oh,  Roger,"  she  said,  crying,  "  I  love  you 
so.  You  don't  understand.  I  love  you  with  all  my  life, 
and  all  my  honor,  and  all  my  right  to  live !  And  if  I 
don't  mind,  who  in  all  the  world  can  say  we  haven't 
the  right?  Hasn't  love  any  rights?  Dearest,  when 
I  tell  you  I  would  rather  lose  heaven — and  God — than 
to  lose  you  now,  is  there  anything  else  that  can  say 
we  haven't  the  right?" 

"  There  is — God  help  us — there  is,"  he  groaned. 
"  We  are  two  responsible  creatures.  We  can't  live 
only  for  ourselves — we  can't.  We  haven't  the  right  to 
thrust  existence  on  any  creature  that  chance  might 
damn — that  way — again.  God  knows  how  far  from 
us  that  woolly  hair,  that  black  little  face,  might  come 
again,  and  bring  its  shame.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  Is  all 
this  anguish  to  go  for  nothing  ?  Is  more  of  this  shame 
to  hound  the  innocent  again?  Not  from  me!  not 
from  me !  I  can  die — I  can  even  live,  and  suffer — but 

354 


THE    RIGHT    OF    LOVE 


this  thing — never!  Genevra,  I  love  you  so  much  I 
can  let  you  go,  so  much  I  can  suffer,  so  much  it  will 
last  through  time  itself,  so  much  that  God  might  be 
jealous,  but  I  have  lost  the  right — I  never,  never  had 
the  right — to  make  you  mine!" 

Genevra  was  awed.  Her  heart  sank.  She  realized 
something  which  thought  could  not  have  formulated. 
She  loved  him  more  than  she  ever  had.  She  could 
not  believe  he  was  tearing  out  his  heart  like  this. 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  faltered,  "  I 
never — thought  of  all — that,  because  I  love  you  so. 
It  would  be — very  hard — to  say — good-by.  How  could 
I  say — that,  dearest?  I  love  you  so — I  love  you  so." 
Clinging  to  him,  with  a  little  shiver,  she  placed  her 
cheek  against  his  arm  and  cried  for  the  burden  that 
lay  thus  so  soon  upon  her  heart. 

At  length  he  lifted  her  gently  into  the  hold  of  her 
chair  and  stood  before  her,  looking  sadly  into  her 
eyes.  His  face  had  taken  on  an  older  expression,  not 
as  of  age,  but  rather  as  of  maturity  in  sorrow. 

"  Dearest,  I  must  go,"  he  said,  with  a  wan  smile 
playing  on  his  lips.  "  I  have  hurt  your  life.  I  have 
killed  the  greatest  hope  that  a  man  ever  had.  Now 
there  is  nothing  left — but — good-by.  Oh,  Genevra, 
some  time  try  to  forgive  me;  some  time  remember  I 
didn't  wish  to  do  it — that  I  love  you — love  you — love 
you  till  my  heart  will  break!" 

355 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Oh,  my  big  boy — please,"  she  sobbed,  "  please  don't 
— please  don't  say — anything — like  that." 

"  God  bless  you,  sweetheart,"  he  murmured.  He 
knelt  down  and  kissed  her  hand.  She  seemed  so  help- 
less, so  stricken,  as  she  sat  there  gazing  at  him  wildly, 
dumbly. 

"  Good-by,  Genevra,"  he  said,  in  a  moment. 

She  started  up  and  clung  to  him  fondly,  in  despair. 
"  Oh  Roger,"  she  said  to  him,  "  I  don't  know  how  I 
can  let  you  go.  It  does  seem  as  if  in  England  we  might 
still  be  happy — be  right  in  our  love.  No  one  there 
could  care — as  they  might  over  here.  It  does  seem  as 
if  there  is  some  way — some  way  we  could  make  it 
right.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  can't — let  you 
go — never — never  to — have  you — again.  I  love  you 
so.  Dearest,  I  would  follow  you — anywhere,  bare- 
footed— hungry — anything — only  to  see  you — to  know 
that  you  love  me.  Oh,  Roger,  I  can't — I  can't — I  can't 
give  you  up.  I  would  rather  die !" 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  failed.  At  length  he  said, 
hoarsely, — 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Oh,  God,  I  have  thought  of  that ! 
It  would  be  so  easy — to  die.  It  takes  so  much  courage 
—to  live." 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  awe  of  a  fearful  thought. 

"  We  could— die — together,"  she  whispered,  in  af- 
fright at  herself. 

356 


THE    RIGHT    OF   LOVE 


"  No,  no — we  mustn't !"  he  said,  passionately.  "  Ge- 
nevra,  help  me  to  do  what  I  must  do,  and  help  me  to 
live — to  wish  to  live.  Shame  me — for  my  faltering- 
manhood.  Shame  me,  dear,  shame  me.  Save  me  from 
that.  Don't  let  me  lose  this  struggle.  Help  me  now 
— now,  when  I  need  it  most." 

She  was  psychically  driven  to  obey — psychically 
purged  of  her  dreadful  thought.  She  went  to  the  table 
unsteadily,  and  took  up  his  hat.  She  kissed  it,  as  she 
came  blindly  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  dearest — our  love,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "  I 
don't  —  see  how  —  I  can.  Our  love  —  our  hopes  — 
and — '  Paradise  Regained' — you  promised  that — you 
promised  you'd  come  back — to  me — and  write  me — 
that." 

"  I — can  never — never  write  it— now,"  he  said. 
"  Oh,  God,  oh,  Genevra, — both  of  you — send  me 
away.  Help  me,  help  me!  If  you  love  me,  send 
me  now." 

She  steadied  herself,  peculiarly.  She  came  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"  Go,  dearest,"  she  whispered.  "  Go,  dear  love,  with 
all — my  heart — and  my — life — forever." 

He  held  her  tenderly  for  a  moment,  waiting  till  he 
could  speak  again. 

"  Good-by,  precious,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  he  kissed 
her  on  the  lips. 

357 


THE    INEVITABLE 


"  Good-by,"  she  whispered,  and  let  him  slip  from  her 
clinging  arms.  Then  she  grasped  the  chair. 

At  the  door  he  looked  back,  for  one  second  of  silence. 
Then  he  closed  it  behind  him — and  was  gone. 

She  looked  for  a  moment  on  the  blank  surface  of 
the  panels. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  I  can't  let  you  go !"  she  cried,  in  an- 
guish, and,  staggering  forward  to  call  him  back,  she 
sank  to  the  floor. 


358 


XVII 

THE   INEVITABLE 


ROGER  GORDON  knew  when  he  boarded  the  huge  Li- 
berian  ship  that  he  was  doing  the  only  thing  there  was 
to  do.  And  yet  to  him  the  vessel  was  a  great  black 
monster,  straining  at  her  moorings  as  if  eager  to  part 
him  forever  from  Genevra.  From  the  funnel  a  cloud 
of  smoke  was  pouring  so  dense  that  it  blotted  out  the 
sun  from  time  to  time,  casting  prodigious  shadows  on 
the  mass  of  humanity  gathered  on  the  pier. 

The  shadow  fell  on  Genevra's  face,  as  she  stood 
there  looking  so  steadfastly  upward  to  where  he  was. 
Focussed  as  all  of  Gordon's  senses  were,  on  her  sweet, 
dilated  eyes,  he  noted,  sub-consciously,  what  a  vast 
majority  of  the  faces  to  be  seen  were  black.  He  saw 
what  a  motley  throng  it  was  that  surrounded  her,  gath- 
ered together  for  the  last  good-bys.  Old  men  were 
there,  in  heterogeneous  garb,  beside  stylish  young 
women.  A  bent  old  colored  woman,  leaning  on  a  huge 
umbrella,  cried.  Next  her  in  the  crowd  three  stout 
young  negroes  were  dancing  and  laughing. 

Eagerness  and  questioning  of  fate  dominated  all 
about  where  Gordon  stood  on  the  deck.  Hope  for  the 
race  of  blacks,  sense  of  prophecy,  ambition  for  the 
project,  wrought  a  thousand  expressions.  Liberia, — 

359 


THE    INEVITABLE 


something  of  their  own, — a  land  in  which  they  should 
prove  their  worth  and  found  a  new  republic,  was  the 
dream  of  this  handful  of  earnest  men  and  women. 

A  white-faced  fellow,  with  features  more  negroesque 
than  those  of  many  of  the  darker  men,  was  the  one 
who,  at  a  signal,  tossed  the  last  big  hawser  from  a 
stanchion,  as  the  other  lines  were  hauled  aboard. 

The  ship  swung  off. 

Genevra's  anguish  shot  through  her  heart.  She  saw 
nothing  but  Roger,  modelled  in  bold  relief  against  the 
background  of  a  thousand  men.  On  his  right  was 
Teresa,  on  his  left  was  his  sister, — she  so  fair,  they 
two  so  dark,  and  all  three  so  serious  and  wistful. 

His  hat  was  in  his  hand.  The  sun  shone  warmly  on 
his  glossy  black  hair.  He  looked  as  once  before  he  had 
looked,  when  about  to  commence  his  recital  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost."  His  eyes  were  answering  Genevra's  as  if 
his  guiding  star  were  clear  to  see. 

She  stood  apart  from  the  throng,  with  her  father 
and  old  Doctor  Pingle.  How  pale  she  was !  She  wa- 
vered where  she  stood,  unsteadily.  Her  eyes  were 
blazing  with  love's  unspeakable  despair.  It  seemed  to 
her  then,  as  she  looked  at  Roger,  that  she  should  see 
those  deep-set,  saddened  eyes  gazing  straight  into  hers 
for  all  eternity.  It  was  almost  too  much  to  support. 

As  the  boat  swung  away  from  the  pier  she  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  heart  to  still  its  pain. 

360 


THE    INEVITABLE 


Farther  and  farther  away  drifted  the  ship.  The 
gulf  of  water  widened.  Genevra  was  leaning  oddly 
forward.  The  tie  to  her  heart  was  being  so  strained 
that  she  felt  as  if  something  were  about  to  break.  The 
dread,  irreparable  loss  she  was  then  sustaining,  the 
soul-sickening  desolation  which  her  life  was  about  to 
become,  were  borne  in  upon  her  ruthlessly,  vividly,  all 
in  one  agonizing  second. 

There  was  the  water,  so  darkly  seething  beneath 
her,  the  water  to  answer  it  all,  and  to  end  it  all !  But 
across  the  abyss  came  Roger's  great  strength,  to  pacify 
her  soul,  to  bring  her  heroic  endurance.  As  if  on  the 
breeze  that  blew  from  where  he  was,  she  heard  him 
speaking : 

"  It  would  be  so  easy  to  die, — it  takes  so  much  cour- 
age to  live." 

She  held  up  her  face,  in  the  bravery  of  all  its  tears. 
A  something  of  sublimity  crept  to  her  heart. 

The  ship  commenced  slowly  to  turn  its  prow  towards 
the  great  uncertainty  of  the  open  sea.  Still  Genevra 
saw  him  where  he  stood  in  his  manhood;  still  Roger 
beheld  her,  as  if  she  lingered  alone  on  the  pier. 

They  knew  that,  though  a  thousand  years  of  time 
and  a  million  miles  of  distance  should  intervene,  that 
last  long  look  would  bridge  the  space  forever. 

THE   END 

361 


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THAT  MAINWARING  AFFAIR. 

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THE  "TRUE"  BIOGRAPHIES 


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000  137272 


